


the ember left from the flames

by windfalling



Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Psy-Changeling AU, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-04-11 23:07:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 28,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4456007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windfalling/pseuds/windfalling
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When the person on the other end speaks, the first thing she registers is his voice, low and gravelly, like thunder rolling across the sky. The second thing is what he says.</i>
</p><p><i>“Lizzie! I was wondering when you’d call.”</i> </p><p>There are rules to how the world is supposed to work, and one of them is this: the Psy do not intermingle with changelings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place in the universe of Nalini Singh's _Psy/Changeling_ series and parallels certain canon details from the show. 
> 
> For a quick rundown of the terminology/worldbuilding:  
> There are three separate races: humans, changelings, and the Psy. The Psy have psychic abilities ranging from telepathy to telekinesis to foresight, and are the leading race in politics and business. The changelings are essentially animal shapeshifters who can shift at will. The section on the Silence Protocol below is paraphrased from the series.
> 
> Also, for characterization reasons, Liz will mostly be referred to as Elizabeth in her own POV, and her surname is Scott for, well, obvious reasons.

 

 

> The Silence Protocol was implemented in 1979 by the Psy Council to reduce the incidence of violent and deadly manifestations of their abilities. The aim of Silence was to condition the Psy from birth to feel nothing. They are cut off from all emotion, from hatred and rage to joy and love.
> 
> A century later, life before Silence has been forgotten. 
> 
> The Protocol was a success, and the Psy are perfect in their Silence. 

— Paraphrased from the _Psy/Changeling_ series by Nalini Singh

 

 

- 

 

 

There is a card by the door.

It’s thin enough to have been slipped through the gap underneath, and she’s immediately put on alert. Her people prefer to use telepathic communication — either directly or indirectly through the PsyNet — to deliver any message, let alone this. Elizabeth stares at it warily for long moment before reaching down to pick it up.

It reads:  HE’S INNOCENT. FIND RICHARD ALLEN.

There’s a phone number on the back.

She tucks it into her pocket and resolves to investigate later. For now, she has a man to interrogate.

 

 

-

 

 

On the way to the local Enforcement building, she reviews the case file in her mind. She brings up the image of the victim: Stephanie Moore, a high-profile human CEO, murdered last night. The suspect is William Newman, one of the employees. She scans the files of the crime scene sent to her through the PsyNet earlier. They had caught Newman standing over Moore’s body with the gun at his feet; his fingerprints were later found on the weapon. There is a thirty-minute gap in the security footage, and without it, they have no other leads.

It is not a case she would normally be on, but the victim evidently has powerful connections — enough to bring her in, a member of the Justice Corps. 

When she arrives, one of the detectives meets her at the door. He’s human, and he eyes her with thinly-veiled distrust. “Ms. Scott?” 

She nods.

“Donald Ressler. I’ll be working on the case with you.” He begins to reach out as if to shake her hand, but drops it halfway. She knows the gesture to be on her behalf — physical contact is prohibited for the Psy, a threat to their conditioning under the Silence Protocol.

“Has he said anything?”

Ressler shakes his head, moving to open the door for her. “Not anything useful. There’s something wrong with him, though — he’s having trouble speaking.” 

“What do you mean?”

“He keeps trying to say something, but it’s like he physically can’t.” Ressler glances at her. There’s a hard, knowing look in his eyes, and she knows at that moment that this case will be more complicated than she’d thought.

 

 

-

 

 

“Tell me about that night, Mr. Newman.”

The man across the table begins to turn red with the effort to talk. “I… I didn’t…” His hands grip the edge of the table, and he’s staring at her so intensely that his eyes begin to bulge slightly. Whatever comes out of his mouth next is an unintelligible combination of words.

There’s no use questioning him any longer. “Alright, Mr. Newman, I’m going to look through your memories now. I need you to relax and think about what happened.” 

This is what she does: she walks through the minds of criminals and captures every single horrifying moment of their crimes, then projects them to any other mind without a natural shield. It is only job available to telepaths born with the rare J-designation ability — and with her particular talent, the Council was quick to subsume her into the Justice Corps.

Elizabeth reaches out with her mind and easily slips into his. Some J-Psy require touch, though thankfully, she is not one of them. Masking her fractured conditioning is difficult enough without battling sensory overload.

Once inside, Elizabeth knows immediately what the problem is: someone had tried to alter Newman’s memories of the murder, but whoever it was had been in a rush and had damaged his brain in the attempt. The altered memory shows Newman walking into Moore’s office, pulling out the gun, and shooting her point-blank. It is an almost seamless creation, and if it were not for the messy exit, she is not sure she would have been able to tell the difference.

Nonetheless, she manages to find the real memory, buried messily underneath a tangle of psychic scars. With her discovery comes a revelation: Newman is innocent.

Her mind flashes to the card by her door. Something in her stomach twists uneasily.

Elizabeth withdraws from Newman’s mind and enters the PsyNet to find Harold Cooper, the commanding officer for this region. 

He answers her telepathic knock immediately. _What is it, Ms. Scott?_

 _Sir. The suspect is innocent_. _There is evidence of psychic tampering that has damaged his mind._

Cooper pauses. _I see. Do you know who it was?_

She makes a decision in a split second. _I caught a glimpse,_ she says, and it is a partial truth. There had been another man. _I’ll have to go back in._

Cooper’s response is immediate this time. _Do not follow up on any leads yet. The Council may want to handle this on their own._

 _Understood_.

Ressler is waiting for her when she exits the interrogation room. “Having trouble with his brain?” It’s a deceptively innocent question, betrayed only by his sharp gaze. 

“I have what you need,” she says in response. 

Ressler narrows his eyes at her but does not say anything else, just nods and closes his eyes. She projects the memory into his mind as how it truly happened: Newman walking into the office and finding Moore’s body, Newman seeing the gun and reaching down to pick it up. She cuts it off there.

“That’s it?”

“For now.”

Ressler stares at her. “For now? What the hell does that mean?”

She keeps her face carefully blank. “It means that he’s suffered damage to his brain, and he needs to be treated before I can go deeper.”

He is quick to put things together. His mouth twists, and for a moment, he looks as if he’s about to yell at her. She does not blame him for his anger. The Psy are a proud and loyal people, and many humans and changelings have suffered for it — the humans most of all, without a natural shield to protect them. She looks at Ressler and wonders how many times his thoughts have been manipulated, wonders if he even knows.

It is this thought that leads her to say, “There was someone else he saw. But he needs to see an M-Psy before I can get a clearer image.”

Ressler looks at her for a long moment in a way that is no longer hostile, the suspicion in his eyes tempered by curiosity. “I’ll have that arranged today.”

Elizabeth nods. “I’ll be back tomorrow, then.”

 

 

-

 

 

She’s stroking the scar on her right hand again.

It’s an anxious habit that she has never been able to stop, an indication of her fractured conditioning. She is careful never to give in to it in public. To do so would be to indicate that she is flawed, and she does not want to risk total rehabilitation—a psychic brainwipe that would erase everything she is, turning her into nothing more than a walking vegetable, capable of only the most basic actions.

But her home is a safe place, so she moves her thumb up and down the ridges of her marred skin, and takes comfort from it where she can. 

The card is still in her pocket.

She isn’t sure which unsettles her the most: that the sender of the card knows about the case, that they know Newman is innocent, or that they targetted _her_ , specifically. 

Elizabeth takes out the card. She flips it to the other side, stares at it. Her phone is in her other hand. The screen dims three times before she finally dials the number.

The call goes through. 

When the person on the other end speaks, the first thing she registers is his voice, low and gravelly, like thunder rolling across the sky.

The second thing is what he says.

“Lizzie! I was wondering when you’d call.”

She blinks, utterly taken aback. _Lizzie?_

“Did you find Richard Allen?” the man asks.

“My name is Elizabeth,” she says. “Who are you?”

“That isn’t important right now. Allen—”

She interrupts him, her voice flat. “I think it is. You came to my apartment and you knew about the case. Who are you? Why not go directly to Enforcement with this instead of me?”

“Why haven’t you told them about your little lead?” he counters. When she does not respond, he continues. “I chose you for many reasons, one of which is that I knew you wouldn’t report the little tip I gave you.”

It takes everything in her to keep her voice calm and even. Her fingers do not shake. Her voice does not tremble. Even to this man, who is most likely not Psy given how vibrant his voice is, she will not betray her perfect facade. “And how could you possibly know that?”

He ignores her question. “As for who I am… my name is Raymond Reddington. But you can call me Red, if you’d like.”

She enters a cursory search for his name through the PsyNet and comes up with nothing — or at least, nothing in the public files. Only the Council monitors and controls the Net, so he is either a nobody, or someone the Council does not want the Psy populace to know about. She has realized one thing, though: he is not to be taken lightly.

“What do you want?” 

“The same thing you do: to bring justice to a murderer.” There’s something in the tone of his voice that tells her that his answer cannot be as simple as that. 

“That’s all?”

“For now. All you need to know is that to find who killed Stephanie Moore, you need to find Richard Allen. And since you know what he looks like, that should give you a head start.”

She goes still. “How do you—”

“As I said, I chose you. I know you,” he says, and she is momentarily unsettled by the gravity in those three words before his voice bounces upward again. “And I know what you can do.”

Elizabeth considers this, weighs the risks and benefits and predicts the outcomes. She cannot ignore the existence and value of his information.

“I have another meeting scheduled for tomorrow,” she says. “I’ll find out as much as I can then.”

“Lizzie.”

She responds despite herself. “Yes?”

“If you need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to call this number.”

Elizabeth is quiet for a long moment. It’s almost dizzying, how much his voice transforms. Cheerful at one moment, deep and intense at another, to how soft and gentle it is now. 

“I will,” she finally says, and hangs up.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She finds herself holding her phone. _If you need anything_ , he told her, but what she needs is for her shields not to shatter under the whirlwind of her thoughts, and that is not something he can give her.

Elizabeth walks into Cooper’s office the next day following her second extraction. There had been little else she was able to uncover from Newman despite the medical attention he received, but it is enough.

“Ms. Scott,” Cooper greets her. Beside him is an older man whom she recognizes as her own superior officer at the Justice Corps.

She pauses at the doorway, flickering her eyes between them. “I was not expecting to see you here, sir.”

“This case has proven to be more troublesome than expected,” says Connolly. “I am here to make a decision.”

Her fingers go cold. There are few reasons for him to become personally involved with any case, none of them good.

Cooper looks at her. “Were you able to retrieve the full memory?”

She nods. “Once your shields are lowered, I will project it to you.”

On the psychic plane, both of their outermost shields drop. Their minds are undoubtedly still fortified beyond that in protection, just as hers are, layer upon layer of security and defensive protocols to guard themselves. It is enough for her ability, and she plays it back for them in precise detail.

This is how it happens:

Newman walks into Moore’s office, late at night, and finds her body. In the periphery, the office is a mess: drawers pulled out, papers strewn about, supplies scattered on the floor. He runs to her, sees the gun, reaches down to pick it up—but doesn’t. Something clatters behind him; he turns and is immediately hit with a telepathic blow.

The Psy’s face is blurred, but as Newman falls, he catches a glimpse of another person, crouched by the desk—a split-second glimpse of a man’s profile before his vision blacks.

Cooper and Connolly are both silent afterward, most likely conferring telepathically with each other. 

“Have you shown anyone else this?” Connolly asks, turning the full weight of his gaze onto her. 

“No, sir.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Then what do you want me to—”

“You know as well as I do, Ms. Scott, that we cannot allow any hint of Psy involvement in this case to escape this room.”

She does. Of all the three races, the Psy are known to have the lowest rates of violent crime—the last reported statistic was close to zero. Silence has eradicated such tendencies.

But to have a Psy involved in such a high-profile murder case? It would be disastrous. The Council would never allow it.

Elizabeth had thought her involvement a little unusual. Now she knows why she was assigned to the case.

Connolly picks up the folder on Cooper’s desk, flipping through the files. “As I understand it, William Newman is the prime suspect. Given all the evidence against him, this one should be easy for you.”

Just as her ability to extract and project memories is a sub-designation of telepathy, very few J-Psy can manipulate them like she can. It is a well-kept secret among the Justice Corps and certain high-level members of Enforcement. 

Her ability is a rare one. There is a distant memory in her mind of her father teaching her to keep it hidden, to mask it somehow. But the truth had come out eventually, and the Council had taken her in to be groomed with the other Js.

In her eight years of service, she has only used it five times under orders. She has falsified locations, times, objects to bring the most brutal criminals to justice. In all those cases, she has never doubted their culpability. It may have been unethical, but at the end of it all, she has never regretted the choices she made.

Reddington’s voice echoes in her head. _The same thing you do: to bring justice to a murderer_.

“Newman is innocent,” she finds herself saying.

Connolly’s eyes grow cold. _Are you going against me?_ he asks, his voice a sharp flint in her head.

Cooper has not said anything throughout their entire exchange, but she finds the weight of his gaze on her. His face is as still and emotionless as the most Silent of Psy, but something makes her turn to address him instead. 

“There was another man toward the end. The probability of his involvement in the murder is significant.”

“You want to investigate him,” Cooper says, and it is not a question, so she does not answer. 

“Newman barely saw him. Pursuing him will be a useless endeavour,” Connolly interrupts.

Elizabeth already knows his name, but there is no way of revealing that without disclosing her informant—and that is unacceptable. She continues to hold Cooper’s stare. “I can do it.”

Cooper is quiet for a moment. Then he says, “Work with Detective Ressler on the case. You have one day.”

She barely resists the urge to protest. One day? She notes that Connolly has not argued against this, likely because he, too, realizes how improbable it is for her to accomplish this.

 But it is one day more than she has otherwise, and she takes it for what it is: a chance.

Cooper has given her one chance to save an innocent man from being wrongly convicted, and she will not waste it.

 

 

-

 

 

Ressler has pictures of all the suspects spread out on a table in the meeting room, pinning certain ones to a magnetic board. He looks over to her when she walks in. “Cooper already briefed me on what we have to do.”

She pauses, wondering how much the Commander would have divulged to him. “I see.” 

“We’re looking for the other person you mentioned, right?”

“Yes.”

Thankfully, he does not ask anymore of her. It is a precarious line she is walking with this human—she needs to investigate her lead while also keeping Newman’s innocence in question, and she does not want to become entangled in any more lies.

Elizabeth scans the board. “Who are these people?”

“The most likely suspects, next to Newman.” He begins talking about their locations, lack of alibis, but none of them are who she is looking for.

She turns to the files on the table and begins looking through them. 

“I haven’t finished going through them—” he cuts off when she holds up one of the pictures.

She does not recognize him right away, from the blurry glimpse she got from the memory. Even looking at the picture of his face in profile, it’s difficult to tell. If she were to look close—the shape of his nose, perhaps. The arch of his eyebrow. _You already know what he looks like_ , the man called Reddington had said, but it is the name that convinces her: Richard Allen.

“It’s him.”

She hands the file over to Ressler.

“You’re sure?” Ressler asks, his mouth turning down slightly.

“Yes.”

“He’s Moore’s business rival—well-known in their sector. They both deal in cybersecurity. They don’t have a good history—there have been rumours of industrial espionage. If we go after him, it’ll be all over the news.”

She meets his eyes. “I am certain.”

“Then let’s go bring him in.”

 

 

-

 

 

They manage to be discreet. Allen had gone along willingly enough, not wanting to be linked to the murder in the media. 

They bring him to a private room back at Enforcement. Ressler starts off the interview, going over his connection to the victim, his whereabouts on the night of the murder, and so on. Allen is relaxed at first, but begins to become more and more tense as Ressler probes harder. His fingers begin to twitch; his eyes keep sliding to the side; his face begins to redden. 

“Let me remind you, I came here willingly,” Allen snaps. “If you think I had anything to do with this, you’re wasting your time. Besides, don’t you already have a confession?”

At this, Ressler leans back, his eyes sharp. “News gets out fast,” he observes. “I hadn’t realized that information had been leaked to the media.”

Their conversation slowly filters into the background as Elizabeth reaches out and slips into his mind. She moves slowly and carefully; humans may not be psychic beings, but a subconscious part of them can still detect psychic interference.

“There are some things we don’t know yet. Why he did it, for example,” Ressler continues, slowly drawing him out.

It is dangerous to get lost in a person’s mind. Young Js often find it difficult to navigate through the barrage of memories, but they quickly learn how to filter. 

With the murder at the forefront of Allen’s thoughts, it is easy to find the relevant ones. What she finds is this: it was not his hand that pulled the trigger and killed Stephanie Moore. But he is the one who planned and contracted it.

 

 

-

 

 

In the end, Richard Allen is arrested for the murder of Stephanie Moore. 

Under Cooper’s orders, she rewrites the past.

It is Allen who walks into Moore’s office, Allen who pulls out the gun and shoots her. The Psy he contracted was never there. 

Elizabeth watches Ressler interrogate him through the one-way glass. She sees Allen’s wide-eyed confusion, and then the vehement denial, and finally the dawning realization. 

“It’s that Psy,” he shouts furiously, “that J-Psy, she—” 

The door shuts quietly behind her.

 

 

-

 

 

When it is his word against hers, she will always win. 

No matter how much Allen tries to defend himself, to point out what she did, all that matters is that he is guilty, one way or another. Any truth he speaks is tainted with his lies. 

He is guilty, Elizabeth tells herself. Moore’s death is on his hands. This is an irrefutable fact.

Newman is free. The official story is that he was there at the wrong place at the wrong time and was attacked by the murderer, causing brain trauma and resulting in memory issues and expressive aphasia. It is mostly the truth.

It is the _mostly_ that she lingers on. She has dealt with so many partial truths in the past few days. The concept of a conscience is not something most Psy would admit to; it implies feeling guilt, and the Psy do not feel.

Elizabeth finds herself holding her phone. _If you need anything_ , he told her, but what she needs is for her shields not to shatter under the whirlwind of her thoughts, and that is not something he can give her.

Still, she presses _call_.

“Lizzie,” he greets her warmly. “How is the case going?”

His voice is such a sharp contrast to the cold Psy tone; strangely, it calms her just as much as it disconcerts her. 

“It’s finished. Thank you for your help.”

“So you ended up finding him? I’m glad I was able to be of assistance.”

“Yesterday, on the phone,” she says suddenly, “you said, ‘to find who killed Stephanie Moore, you need to find Richard Allen.’”

He waits for her to continue.

“Did you know that he had an accomplice?” When he does not answer, she presses on. “By your phrasing, I had been under the impression that he was the one who killed her.”

“And have you found that to be false?”

“No,” she says immediately, but she does not know how to express her thoughts properly, or how much to give away.

“Lizzie? Did something happen?” He pauses, and his next words are hesitant. “Would you like to continue this conversation in person?”

She blinks, surprised at the unexpected invitation.

At her silence, he rushes to say, “If you are more comfortable talking over the phone…”

It would be a betrayal of her conditioning, to go and see him. She can think of a dozen justifications for it, but none of them would be close to the truth, which is this: she is curious about him.

She gives him her answer. “Where?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s Psy. I know how much you believe in her, but we still don’t know how Silent she is… or if she can even be pulled out.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm on vacation + sick at the moment, so there will be shorter chapters for a while unfortunately! but things are finally progressing from the intro chapters & i'm very excited to be moving forward.

When he extends the invitation, regret immediately follows. 

It is too soon, Reddington thinks. Too soon and too abrupt, and the last thing he wants is to make her suspicious, to push her too far. Her lack of response only confirms it, and when he tries to backtrack, he still does not expect anything other than a refusal.

But she upends his expectations, surprising both parts of him, and it takes him a moment to respond and give her the address. The conversation ends and he hangs up in a bit of a daze.

“Raymond.” 

One of his closest friends, Dembe, steps forward from the threshold of the door. “Are you certain this is a good idea?”

 _No_ , he thinks, but answers, “It’ll be fine.”

The other man hesitates, then says, “She’s Psy. I know how much you believe in her, but we still don’t know how Silent she is… or if she can even be pulled out.”

“I am aware of the circumstances,” Reddington responds tightly, though everything within him rebels against the mere thought of it. He has an inexplicable knowing that Silence has not completely overtaken her yet; he will not lose her.

Dembe rests his hand on Reddington’s shoulder. “I just do not want you to expect too much and get hurt,” he says gently.

“It’s called hope, my friend. I have hope.”

Dembe looks at him, his eyes ringed with bright yellow, the leopard in his gaze. “Then I will hope as well. When is she coming?”

“In an hour.”

Reddington glances around the apartment. It is not the ideal place he’d pictured for their first meeting, but it is only temporary until they can move into a safer place. He does not want to risk meeting publicly—for her safety, but also for his own. It was only last week that they had narrowly escaped Psy capture at a diner two cities away, after all.

Luli appears from her room. “I just got off the phone with one of Navabi’s lieutenants,” she says, holding the device up. “She wants to meet.”

Reddington sighs. “Of course she does. When?”

“Tonight.”

He’s already shaking his head. “Call them back and reschedule.”

Luli purses her lips. “They aren’t going to like that.”

“They’ll deal with it.” He pauses. “We have company tonight.”

Luli raises her eyebrows. Then her expression shifts, realization quickly followed by understanding. “Of course. Do you want us gone for the evening?”

He considers this. It would be less intimidating for her, he supposes, given that she is only expecting him. He gives her a nod.

Luli says, “Just give us a call if you need us.”

They won’t be far from him; they never are. Dembe begins to stand, organizing his things. “Good luck,” Dembe tells him, and Reddington prays he won’t need it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i lied, apparently, about the shorter chapters -- i intended to have this up sooner + shorter, but well, it didn't turn out that way. i make no promises from now on, haha.
> 
> a sentence from this, in italics, is paraphrased from _Bonds of Justice_ by Nalini Singh. i originally had a footnote for it, but, well--it looked too intrusive for me so i took it out.

The entire drive there, Elizabeth eyes every exit, every street she can use to turn the car around and go home. Each time, she passes them by. 

The GPS navigates her to the outskirts of the city, a district populated primarily by humans and changelings. It falls in line with her assumption that he is not Psy, though the possibility remains. 

She makes her way to the apartment. Lingering in the car, she allows herself one last moment to reconsider before making her final decision. Though there are few people around, her presence still draws some curious looks. At 8.9 on the Gradient, she is a powerful telepath, but she is not a cardinal, and does not have the ink-black eyes that mark their power. It is easier for her to blend in, but she knows her body language gives her away.

He buzzes her in. When she arrives at his door, she knocks without hesitation. It opens so quickly that she wonders if he’d just been standing there, waiting for her the whole time.

For a moment, neither of them move or say anything at all. She can’t explain what it is that holds her silent before him, but whatever it is seems to have gripped him, too. 

Elizabeth looks him over, placing the voice to the face. He is older than her, his hairline receding and his hair shaved close to his head, although he is not _old_. She estimates him to be around fifty at the most, which is considerably young, given the natural lifespan to be well over one hundred. He is dressed immaculately in a three-piece suit. There is something intimidating about him, a certain gravity that makes it impossible to focus on anything else. 

She has a feeling, though, that he could be barefoot in a shirt and jeans and still command his presence.

On the psychic plane, she reaches out curiously in a telepathic scan, brushing against his mind. 

Changeling.

Elizabeth draws back in surprise and meets his eyes.

Reddington looks at her with a warm smile that softens his entire face. “Hello, Lizzie. It’s good to see you.”

Something in her unwinds at the sound of his voice, clear from the electronic static of the phone. “Reddington,” she says in response, inclining her head in a nod. _Raymond_ had been too familiar, as was calling him _Red_ ; she’d settled on his surname during the elevator ride.

“Please, come in.” He steps aside, gesturing toward the living room. “Would you like anything to drink?” he offers as she takes a seat on one of the couches.

She declines politely, watching him move around. What kind of changeling he is, she does not know, although there is something different about the way he walks that has her puzzling over it. 

“I can mix you an energy drink, if you change your mind,” he says, pouring himself a glass of what looks like alcohol. 

“It is unusual for non-Psy to consume our food,” she says. Psy keep to a strictly regulated diet of nutrient drinks, energy bars, and prescribed meals with the appropriate calories and vitamins; anything else is not recommended under Silence.

“Oh, I don’t. I prefer things with taste,” he replies, his mouth quirking into another smile.

Her automatic response is to defend her people, but her thoughts are derailed. “Then why—?” she begins, only to cut herself off.

He settles on the seat opposite her, tilting his head to the side. “Why?” he prompts.

 _Why would you have them in the first place_ , was what she was thinking, before the answer had come to her. _For me_. It is a self-centred thought, yet she can’t let go of the idea that he’d prepared it for her.

“You’re changeling,” she says instead. 

He looks unsurprised that she knows. “Yes.”

It suddenly comes to her. The head tilt, his eyes, the way he walks—his movements all have a sort of feline grace to them, reminding her of the other few occasions she’s interacted with his kind. Feline changelings have a tendency to prowl even in human form. “Are you a leopard?” she asks, thinking of DesertFire, the predatory pack that controls the changeling sector in this region.

His lips curve again. He smiles a lot, she’s beginning to realize. “Close,” he says. “Jaguar.”

She has never been near a changeling in animal form. What would it be like, she wonders, to have two selves, to be able to transform into something so lethal? 

Elizabeth does not dare underestimate him, however—human or animal.

“There’s something I’ve been wondering for some time,” he says, and leans forward. If he moved any closer, his knees would be touching hers. “Does your ability work on us?”

“Changelings have a natural shield. It is extremely difficult to get past it without doing harm and is generally not worth the effort.”

“So if you tried to extract one of my memories, for example,” he begins, his eyes intent on hers.

“I have never attempted it, but as it is a telepathic ability, I highly doubt it would work.”

“Would you like to?”

She blinks. “What?”

“Would you like to try?”

“On you?”

He gives a little shrug, his head angled to the side. “If you want to.”

It would be for a scientific purpose, she reasons. Testing out a theory. “Alright,” she says, after a moment. 

Elizabeth straightens her back and faces him fully, her eyes unfocusing as she concentrates. His shield is as strong and impenetrable as she thought it would be, a seamless wall her mind cannot enter. When she brings herself back, she notices how tense he is, his shoulders a rigid line despite his relaxed smile. 

She has never required touch for her ability to work. But maybe, she thinks, it would be worth a try. Slowly, she brings her hand to his temple, brushing against his skin with the softest of touches. 

Reddington inhales in surprise and goes utterly still.

Elizabeth snatches her hand back immediately.

“It didn’t work,” she says.

Touching him was a mistake. Agreeing to this meeting in the first place was a mistake.

The only physical contact she has is during her medical examinations. Beyond that, she cannot remember the last time she touched someone. _Sensation builds_ , her instructor had said, during her transition to adult training. _Every touch is a threat to your conditioning._ The lesson holds true; her shields are already beginning to splinter apart. 

Still, she is a Gradient 8.9 J-Psy. She will not break before him.

“Lizzie?” he says, full of concern.

She falls back onto her conditioning, onto Silence, repairing her shields until she is a sculpture of ice. There is a reason why she came, she reminds herself.

Elizabeth changes the subject. “Why is a changeling so invested in this case?”

His eyes narrow and darken, but he answers her anyway. “I’m not interested in this one in particular.”

“Then what?”

Reddington is quiet for a moment. “You mentioned an accomplice over the phone.”

“Yes.”

“Were you able to identify the person?” 

“No. I know that he’s male, six feet tall, maybe. Dark hair, fair skin.”

“And Psy,” he says, eyes sharp.

Somehow, she’s unsurprised he already knows. “Yes. He must have done something to both Richard Allen and the witness, because his face was blurred.”

“I see.” Reddington levels her with a considering look—deciding, just as she had, what to reveal to her. One of his fingers taps against his knee; she is momentarily distracted by the movement.

“I’ve been tracking him for a while,” he says at last. “He has been responsible for a number of assassinations over the past few years. No one’s been able to identify him, thanks to the Council.”

She goes still. “That is a dangerous accusation.”

“It is the truth.” His voice lowers to a rumble, holding the edge of a growl. His eyes flicker, and she has the strangest feeling that she is no longer speaking with his human side. “The Council has buried away many terrible crimes. They’ve committed a good number of them as well.”

Her fingers twitch toward her scar; she presses them against her knee instead. “What do you want with me?” She has no personal ties to any of the Councilors, nor is she in their inner circle.

“You’re a J. You work closely with Enforcement and the Council through the J-Corps.”

“You want to use me,” she says flatly, the realization settling into her stomach like a heavy stone. 

“No. Never.” Reddington leans forward, the hard edges of his face smoothing out, his bright eyes fading back to grey. He is earnest, undemanding. “I’m asking for your _help_ , Lizzie.” 

“Do I even have a choice in this?” she says, thinking of what she has revealed to him already, what leverage he already has against her.

“I’m not trying to intimidate or coerce you. If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. If at any point, you wish to back out… If you want to walk out that door right now, you can. You will never hear from me again. You have my word.”

His eyes search her face—waiting, it seems, for her to make a move. 

“Why me?” she asks. “Why not some other J?”

“Why not you?” he says, and something in her face must react to his non-answer, because he smiles briefly. “I’ve looked up some of your past work. I’ve noticed that you tend to take on cases where the individuals involved were wrongly convicted. You also elect to work on investigations that fall below your status as a J-Psy—particularly, domestic violence and abuse cases.”

Elizabeth is quiet, having nothing to contradict him. There is more to this, she is sure. But whatever reason he has for choosing her beyond that, he does not say.

“I need some time to think about it,” she finally says.

He nods, rising to his feet as she does. “Of course.”

“I will contact you with my decision.”

Reddington walks her to the door, giving her one last smile. “I’ll be awaiting your call, then.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After that, she had withdrawn behind wall after wall until she was ice, but he could still see her. Not the Psy façade, but _her_ through the fleeting glimpses of her humanity, like rays of sunshine struggling behind the clouds.

“How did it go?” Dembe asks, glancing at Reddington in the rearview mirror. Beside him, Luli is curled up in the passenger seat, focused on her handheld organizer. At his question, though, she raises her head.

“Better than I thought it would,” Reddington admits. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the moment when he first saw her in person; all his words had fallen away. He had felt her watching him throughout the night, saw her eyes drawn to his gestures, taking note of his movements the way no Silent Psy would have. Her open curiosity, the questions she asked—he had fought to quell the burst of hope and relief the entire night, though he isn’t sure he had succeeded.

Then there was that moment when she touched him.

The look on her face, that split-second of stark confusion and shock and something else before her face closed off entirely. Her fingers on his skin, sealed into his memory.

After that, she had withdrawn behind wall after wall until she was ice, but he could still see her. Not the Psy façade, but _her_ through the fleeting glimpses of her humanity, like rays of sunshine struggling behind the clouds.

His phone sits silent in his pocket; he resists the urge to check it yet again for a call that has not come. His jaguar is impatient, too, and paces restlessly inside him. 

It’s been days since he’s shifted for longer than a few hours. He can feel his claws pricking at his skin, wanting to be released. With their past few safe houses compromised due to an internal security issue, they’ve had to stay in hiding, moving from one building to another. Neither Dembe or Luli have complained about their living situation—they have gone through worse, after all—but being confined in a series of small apartments has taken its toll on them, too.

Luli meets his gaze steadily. “Can she be trusted?”

Reddington feels his jaguar bristle at the question, though he knows it to be a valid one. “I trust her,” is all he says, and it is enough. Even if Elizabeth does turn down his request, he is certain she would not tell anyone of his involvement, if only for the reason that it would put her in an unfavourable position. 

“Five minutes away,” Dembe says. “Do you want us to shift for the meeting?”

“No. They might take it as a sign of aggression, and that is the last thing we want. Luli, do we have the gift?”

“I have it here,” she responds.

“Perfect. Let’s hope she’s in a good mood.”

 

 

-

 

 

The moment they pull into DesertFire territory, a leopard jumps out from the trees and lands in front of their car.

Reddington exits and moves slowly toward it, Luli and Dembe trailing protectively by his side. “Raymond Reddington,” he says, gesturing to himself with a smile. “We’re here for a meeting with your alpha.”

The leopard leads them further into the forest before stopping at a small clearing. The alpha of the DesertFire pack steps out of the trees, an olive-skinned woman with long, curly hair tied back into a ponytail. She is flanked by two other leopards who move to cover Dembe and Luli. Her eyes are knife-sharp, and she is just as intimidating as he remembers.

“You look as lovely as ever, Samar,” he says warmly, stepping forward. One of her lieutenants immediately lowers into a crouch, but she holds her hand out.

Samar crosses her arms, the corner of her mouth curving upwards. “Reddington. You’ve looked better,” she responds, and he places a hand to his chest in mock-hurt.

“It’s been a rough week. Rough month, really.” He holds out the gift bag. “Congratulations on your mating.”

Still eyeing him warily, she takes it, raising her eyebrows as she peers inside. “Thank you,” she says, looking slightly mollified as she examines the bottle of wine.

“Have you considered my offer?” He puts on his most charming smile. 

“I have. We’ve decided to accept—under a few conditions.”

His shoulders ease, and it is the only indication of his relief. He needs Samar’s help more than she needs his, and he has a feeling she knows it. “Of course. What are they?”

“First: any visitors of any kind have to be cleared by me,” she begins, giving him a meaningful look. 

He nods, amused. 

“Second: you and your people stay away from the inner circle.” Where the nursery is, he assumes, and the other more vulnerable pack members.

His eyebrows lift as his amusement dissipates. Beside him, he hears a faint rumble of dissent from Dembe, and his own jaguar agrees. “I assure you, we have no intention of harming your cubs,” he says with the utmost gravity. 

“I know that,” she says. “But I also know who you are, Reddington, and what you do. What you’ve done. And I respect that, but the decision to take you in—to put my Pack at risk—was not an easy one to make. So for now, and for the peace of mind of my people, that boundary is in place until you’ve earned their trust.”

“I understand. Third?”

Her eyes go hard, steel in her voice. “Third and last: the moment your presence in my territory becomes an immediate threat to the safety of my people, you’re gone.” 

He nods. “We accept your conditions.”

“Perfect. We’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”

 

 

-

 

 

Samar leads them deeper into the forest before stopping at a location that is still within the outer boundary but far enough from the perimeter. There is a house built upon the branches of a huge tree, connected with a bridge to a smaller aerie. Changelings tend to be more careful with the environment than the other two races, and he sees it now in how its structure is designed not to disturb or harm the tree’s growth or development.

“This is all we have at the moment,” Samar says, pressing a button on a small remote. A ladder unfurls from the deck. “We’ve been expanding to prepare for the number of juveniles coming of age. If you prefer a grounded one, we have one in process, but it’ll take some time.”

He glances sidelong at her, wondering if she meant it as a jab at him. He may not be strong or as fast as he was ten years ago, but he certainly can still climb. “This will be fine, thank you.”

“I’ll leave you to it, then. You have my number if you need to reach me, but there’s a communication panel inside if you’d rather use that instead.”

Samar and her lieutenants leave. Dembe and Luli finally relax their stance, and he can feel their excitement brimming as they look around at their new house, then at the open forest around them. It is a contagious feeling, and he finds himself grinning as they run up and climb the tree, lightning-quick. 

Reddington follows shortly after, wandering through the living room, the kitchen, the bedrooms. He goes out to stand on the bridge, running his fingers along the rail, the scent of the forest surrounding him. If he closes his eyes, it would be so easy to imagine being back at home, with his family, with his Pack. Back in a different time, when the world seemed brighter.

But he is miles away, and he hasn’t had a home in decades.

He keeps his eyes open.

Something brushes at his legs, and he looks down to see a lynx looking up at him, Luli in animal form. Dembe walks out, stripped down to his jeans. “Would you like to go for a run with us, Raymond?”

“I’ll be right down,” he says and moves inside, pushing away any lingering thought of the past. He removes his suit, folding his jacket, then his vest, shirt, and pants. Then finally, _finally_ , he shifts. It is agony and ecstasy, then only the bounding joy and relief of his jaguar.

He leaps from the deck down to where Dembe is waiting, a leopard with a faint scar on his back, and immediately dashes forward.

 

 

-

 

 

Later, after their run—which had rapidly turned into a light jog, then a leisurely walk instead—Reddington settles on the couch, a glass of water in hand. Luli’s phone vibrates on the table, and he is abruptly reminded of the call he was waiting for.

Reaching into his suit pocket, he flips it open anxiously.

One missed call. He curses inwardly—but there’s a message, too.

 _“Reddington, it’s Elizabeth. Elizabeth Scott.”_ The moment he hears her voice, he smiles. _“I’ve decided…”_  

Her voice pauses, and it is the longest three seconds of his life. Then, in a formal tone: _“I’ve decided to help you. There is something I would like to discuss, though. Please contact me with the most convenient time to meet. Thank you.”_

The message ends.

He dials her number immediately.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this has taken so long! the past month has been a little overwhelming for me, haha. as a side-note, this was only ever supposed to be 10k words max... clearly, things are not turning out that way. 
> 
> also, i would like to thank RedandLizzie for recommending this fic on their tumblr! i'd missed it when it was first posted and only saw it recently, but it totally made my day!
> 
> edit: made a typo and mixed Newman and Allen up! sorry for the confusion; that's fixed now.

 

 

The second time Elizabeth meets with Raymond Reddington, he is not alone.

There is another changeling in his apartment, a tall, black man who introduces himself as Dembe. His presence takes her by surprise given the nature of the meeting, and she only looks at Reddington, tense and wary.

“He’s a close friend of mine. Dembe’s just grabbing a few things—he won’t be here long,” he says, sounding apologetic. 

Just as he says, Dembe leaves shortly after he arrives, giving her a nod as he pulls along two suitcases. Elizabeth catches a quick glimpse of one of the bedrooms through an open door and sees the empty closet, the open drawers. 

“My apologies for how everything looks,” Reddington says, just as perceptive of her as he’d been last time. “We’re moving out soon.”

She hadn’t noticed before, but the apartment has three bedrooms. The fact that he has roommates strikes her as a little odd—she’d gotten the impression that he was more of a solitary person. Given the apparent quality of his clothes, she has no doubt he could afford his own place, too, and a better one at that. 

Elizabeth takes a closer look around now. He said they were moving, and the apartment does seem rather empty, but she doesn’t think much has changed. There had been no pictures or frames on the wall, no personalized decorations, and there are none now. 

“How long have you been living here?” she asks.

“A week.”

She blinks. “You’re moving out after a week.”

He looks faintly amused. “Yes. This place was feeling a little… cramped. I’ll give you the directions later.” He pauses, before adding, “Unless you wish to meet elsewhere, of course.”

The thought of him venturing into her neighbourhood—a Psy compound—has her rejecting the offer instantly. She may turn a few heads here, but it is unheard of for a changeling to enter a Psy residential area, even for business reasons. Dropping off a mysterious card at her doorstep is one thing; visiting for meetings that border on treason is another. It would draw suspicion to her, and given what she has now agreed to do, that is the last thing she wants.

It reminds her of something, back from that first phone call. “I searched for your name on the PsyNet, but I was unable to retrieve any information.”

His eyebrows lift, the corners of his mouth curving upward. “If you’re curious about me, Lizzie, you should just ask.”

That nickname again. His assumed familiarity with her is presumptuous—she knows she should correct him, draw that line again. But what she says is, “You’ve taken action against the Council before.”

“Yes.” No hesitation.

It had not troubled her as much as she thought it would, what he had said about the Council. They are the Council; they are the law. It is an unspoken truth that most of the seats are tainted with the blood of their predecessors. She had not needed any more evidence to believe him, not after what happened.

But their power-hungry politics had seemed so distant from her. Now, she knows it had been foolish to think so, especially after all the warnings her father had given her as a child.

“That’s why you’re moving from one place to another so quickly—they’re tracking you.”

“The Council has been trying to hunt me and my people down for years. Unfortunately, there was an… incident, a few months ago, that compromised our security. We’ve managed to lose them for now. Where we’re moving is safer, for now.”

“What did you do to make them come after you?”

Reddington looks at her, his heavy gaze inscrutable. “There is something they think I have,” he says after a moment, but he changes the topic before she can ask anything else. “You said there was something you wanted to discuss?”

Elizabeth straightens in her seat. “On the phone the other day, you asked me if something happened,” she begins slowly, still unsure of whether or not to trust him, but trusting him with this nonetheless. “I was ordered to alter the evidence—the memory. I did. Richard Allen will be the only person convicted for the murder of Stephanie Moore, and aside from you and I, only two other people know the truth.”

Reddington is quiet. There is no judgment or condemnation on his face, only contemplation.He does not look surprised at the admission of her ability, either. _I know what you can do_ , he’d said, and she wonders how much, exactly, he knows about her. “When is the trial?”

“The date hasn’t been set yet, but most likely within the next few months. It may be sooner, given the high profile of the case.” 

“What have you decided to do?” 

She swallows thickly, pressing the inside of her scarred wrist against her leg, then settling for folding her hands in her lap. “If I reveal the truth, the Council will not be able to bury it. Not this time.” But there is no escaping the consequences that would follow. She isn’t sure what’s worse: being tracked down and executed by the Council, or undergoing total rehabilitation. Both are risks she is taking.

Reddington reaches for her as if to take her hand, as if he can sense her fear. With his changeling senses, she would not be surprised if he could. His fingertips brush hers. She nearly flinches away, her shields already scattered with hairline fractures. Despite her reinforcements, her conditioning had begun to splinter the moment she saw him, and she desperately tries to repair them now.

He goes motionless, then withdraws with a murmured apology. “We’ll find another way.”

“Testifying the truth would be the quickest and easiest way to achieve your goal.”

“No,” he says, strangely adamant. “Not if it means painting a target on your back. Let’s just focus on finding him for now.”

Elizabeth stares at him, and even the noise in her mind halts, but he doesn't meet her eyes.

“I can try to interview Allen again to see if he knows anything else,” she finally says. The Psy he contracted hadn’t given a name, and Allen hadn’t known who he was, but something—or someone—must have brought them together.

“I have another lead that may help you.” Reddington tells her about a young man who was part of the leadership of a radical human/changeling activist group and was killed a year ago. 

She focuses on the sound of his voice, mending the cracks and wrestling the chaos of her emotions down to a muted thrum.

Her _emotions_. She’ll be lucky if the M-Psy at her appointment tomorrow doesn’t decide to do a total rehabilitation right then and there.

“You think it was the same person who did it?” she asks. Her fingers dig into the skin on her wrist.

“Yes. I wasn’t able to get much information, but my source did have something interesting. Apparently, the killer moved so fast that his face was blurred.”

Her eyebrows crease together. “I don’t know of any designation that increases one’s speed. They specified his _face_?”

“I was going to ask you, the other day… You assumed that the memory had been altered, but is it possible our assassin is able to do something like that in person?”

A telepath as strong as her may be able to alter their appearance through the perceptions of other people, but it would require a great amount of energy to manipulate multiple minds at the same time. But to physically alter one’s face in such a way… “I’m not sure, but I can look into it.”

“Lizzie,” he says quietly. She goes rigid at the tone of his voice. “Are you alright?” He glances down to where her nails have formed crescent moons around her scar. 

Elizabeth moves her hands apart to rest at her side. “Yes.” The look on his face tells her that he clearly does not believe her. “I haven’t been getting much sleep.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Psy do not dream.” 

She imagines the stutter of her pulse and wonders if he can hear that, too.

Elizabeth looks away and begins to gather her things. Their meeting is over, and she gives him some excuse about work. As she turns to leave, he says, “I meant what I said. If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to.”

She pauses. “It’s not that. I meant what I said, too. My decision hasn’t changed. If it does,” she adds when he opens his mouth again, “I’ll let you know.”

He smiles, then says, “I don’t think I’ve said it yet, Lizzie, but thank you. For agreeing to help me.”

She looks at him. He’s standing a few feet away from her, she notes, keeping his distance—giving her space. “You’re welcome, and thank you, too.”

He tilts his head to the side, a wordless question.

“For giving me the opportunity to make things right,” she says, and closes the door behind her. 


	7. Chapter 7

 

  

She has these dreams, sometimes.

 

 

-

 

 

Down a dark hallway and in a shadowed room, a gunshot goes off. 

Someone screams the name that is not her name, and it echoes in her head, it bounces against her walls, it shatters her—

_where is it what has she done she can’t handle they’re inside find her I heard voices don’t kill hear that too late find it not what I signed put up your shields you need to shield YOU NEED TO SHIELD, MA—_

The scream is hers now and it is coming out through her mouth and the world is—

—in flames, swallowing everything.

Out of the fire, a hand reaches out to her.

  

 

-

 

 

The nightmares shift from time to time. 

Occasionally, they are memories she’s taken, her mind dredging up the horrors she can never forget. Another gift of the J-Psy: an eidetic memory of all their extractions.

But most of the time, it is this.

Always the fire.

 

 

-

 

 

“Your shields are quite fragile,” the M-Psy comments at her reconditioning appointment. 

It is customary for a J to undergo routine checkups. They are prone to fractures in their Silence, given the nature of their work. She has known far too many who end up breaking.

Elizabeth does not respond. Instead, she closes her eyes as the M-Psy probes inside her mind, examining and reinforcing as she goes along.

“Your protection against the PsyNet is holding, but your outer shields protecting you from the rest of the world are not as strong as they should be.” The M-Psy turns to her organizer, pulling up Elizabeth’s medical file. “You had trouble with your initial conditioning as a child.”

She keeps her face blank. She does not like to think of that time.

“Are you experiencing difficulty maintaining Silence again?”

“You know the work that I do. I am here because of it.”

“Yes, however, your shields are significantly more damaged than they have been in the past. Is there a reason for it?”

“Perhaps I need to research different techniques.”

“That may be beneficial,” the M-Psy acknowledges. She begins typing something onto her device. “You’ve been in active service for eight years. Is that correct?”

“Yes.” Suddenly, Elizabeth knows where this conversation will lead. She wills herself to be stone, to not give away any of the dread beginning to rise up inside of her.

But the M-Psy does not say the words Elizabeth fears most. Instead, she says, “I’ve spoken with the Management Board. They’re sending you off your rotation early.”

Elizabeth stares. It is not a death sentence, but it is the first step to retirement—a permanent one.

“Why?”

“Even after my fortification, your shields are still not at full strength. It is not safe for you to use your ability, not until they have fully repaired.” The M-Psy pauses, her eyes unfocusing for a few seconds. “They have instructed me to inform you that you may work as a consultant for the remainder of your shift, but at no point are you to extract any memory—not even a single image.”

The M-Psy sets down her organizer and looks at Elizabeth intently. “I strongly recommend you conserve the use of your ability as much as possible,” she says quietly. “If this strain continues, you will not be having many more appointments with me. Do you understand?”

Elizabeth’s fingers twitch, and she forces them still. “Yes.”

The M-Psy turns away. “If you have any questions, you know who to contact.”

 

 

-

  

 

At the Enforcement building, she settles at one of the unused computers at an empty desk. The supposed lead Reddington had given her is of a man named Shahin Navabi. The name had been familiar, but she hadn’t realized who it was until she had his profile up on the screen in front of her. 

 _Navabi_. As in the deceased brother of Samar Navabi, alpha of the most powerful pack in the region. She had been working on a different case at the time, but she remembers it making the news. The tension between Psy and changeling in the city had nearly risen to a breaking point, and what she remembers most vividly is the look on the alpha’s face as she vowed to obtain justice for her murdered brother.

In the end, the murderer was found and brought to justice. A human isolationist, apparently, who was part of a hate group as well. There had been no contest to his culpability.

She scrolls through his files, copying them onto an encrypted data crystal. No J-Psy was involved in it, she notes. An important case, but apparently not important enough. Her access only goes so far, but she can maneuver around—

“What are you doing?”

Elizabeth swiftly pockets the crystal and moves to close the file, but Ressler is already beside her, settling a folder on the desk. He raises his eyebrows. “The Navabi case? That’s been closed for a year now.”

“I’m researching the overlap between changeling and human law,” she says, looking him in the eye. “I thought that this case would provide a good example.”

Ressler looks at her for a moment, then back at the screen. If he suspects anything, she isn’t sure what she would do. But, she reminds herself, all she’s doing is accessing records on a closed case.

“We did have to fight with her on this one,” Ressler finally says, and her fingers relax. 

“You worked on it?”

“On part of it. I got pushed out by some Psy detective,” he says, scowling, before glancing at her. “Sorry.”

His apology is unexpected, but she moves on. “It’s fine. Do you know why?”

“Why my case was taken away from me? I guess they didn’t trust a human not to screw it up,” he says flatly. “But they got what they wanted—the killer in prison and the leopards off their throats.”

“You do not seem satisfied with the outcome,” she says carefully. 

The suspicion appears in his eyes again, but it gives way to something less wary. “Some of the facts didn’t line up at first,” he says, his voice low, and she strains to hear. “Then someone else took over, and it suddenly did. Navabi could tell something was off—Enforcement had a hell of a time keeping her away.”

Ressler leans over and types something into the keyboard. His access code. “They don’t allow just anyone to access to the initial records, but here they are. Maybe they can be of some use to you.”

“Why are you doing this?” Elizabeth turns away from the computer, tilting her head back to look at him from her seat. “You could get in trouble. I could report you.”

He frowns, eyes narrowing. “Yeah, you could. But I don’t think you’d be able to get away without telling them why, exactly, you’re snooping through a closed case.”

“I’m Psy,” she says, faltering.

“You’re a J,” he says in response. “You guys are different.” 

She blinks, momentarily caught off-guard. Ressler picks up his folder and gives her one last piece of information before he leaves. “He’s being held at the state penitentiary. It might be useful to see him in person.”

“Ressler—thank you.”

He nods, then leaves.

 

 

-

 

  

“It can’t be a coincidence,” Elizabeth says once he picks up the phone. She keeps her voice low, turning away from the people passing by. “The coordinates for where you’re staying and the lead you gave me.” She is careful not to give anything specific away, at least not while she is here. Paranoia or not, she will not risk it.

“Good afternoon to you as well,” Reddington says, amusement colouring his tone. His voice has already become familiar; it disturbs her, how clearly she can picture him, smiling and lounging with his arms stretched out. “I didn’t ask you to look into the case because it would benefit me, if that’s what you’re asking. But her connection is partly why I am involved. We both have a personal interest in this.”

Elizabeth lingers on his last statement. She knows so little about him, about his motivations and his past. To pursue a Psy assassin for personal reasons, though—she wonders if he has his own ghosts to avenge.

“She’s okay with me being there?”

A beat of silence. “She will be.”

She freezes. “You haven’t told her.”

“She knows you’re coming, she just doesn’t know that you’re—well—”

“ _Psy_?” The emphasis she places on the word is as close to an outburst she will get. Her appointment was just that morning, and if she’s already acting like this—

 _This is not good_.

“It’ll be fine, Lizzie, really,” he says, as if she weren’t planning to step foot into the territory of changelings who could and would rip out her throat for being Psy. 

“I don’t think it will be,” she says tightly. Over the phone, he goes quiet again.

Then he says, “You will not be harmed. I promise you, she will know—and accept it—by the time you come. They will not touch you.”

Elizabeth listens to his voice, the utter conviction in it. It is easy to believe in him—easier than it should be.“Alright.”

“I’m sorry for worrying you. I know this may be difficult for you to believe, but you can trust me. In time, I… I hope that you will.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. Her life is already in his hands. One word from him to the right people about what she’s doing, and he could destroy her. She has a feeling that he _knows_ , too—knows that she isn’t entirely Silent. She never was. It doesn't help that her conditioning seems to fall apart when she is around him, either. 

She does not want to think about what that means.

“Are you ever worried that I’ll turn you in?” she asks.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I trust you,” he says simply.

_I chose you. I know you._

She could believe that he chose her for the unusual work she has done as a J-Psy, and that she is merely his co-conspirator on the case they are building against the Council. She could choose not to dig deeper, to find out what he is hiding, what he knows about her. 

She checks her watch.

Elizabeth buries all the questions she has about them—for now.

“I have to go,” she says. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

She hangs up, then walks into the penitentiary. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> up next: Liz visits Red in DesertFire territory and things take an unexpected turn.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi hello it's been a while! to hopefully make up for how long this took, this is a longer chapter than what i usually write. i'm going through this last edit half-asleep; i apologise for any mistakes and typos.

 

 

 

Elizabeth receives the telepathic knock just as she is programming the coordinates Reddington had given into her car. The psychic signature is a familiar one, and not unwelcome.

 _Father,_ she says. She reaches out and bridges the distance between them, her own telepathy far stronger than his. _Is something wrong?_

 _No, I just wanted to inform you, before you heard from anyone else._ Sam pauses. _I will be returning to the hospital for some tests._

She turns her full attention on him, her hand hovering over the control. _Tests? Is it something serious?_  

Despite all the medical advancements in the world, cancer remains difficult to treat and cure. She had been at a residential facility for J-Psy when he was first diagnosed and hospitalised; they had not permitted her to leave to see him. The only connection between parent and child, after all, is to further the family line.

When she had finally been able to visit, she had spent every free moment with him. If any of the staff thought it unusual, they never said anything. Sam, too, had accepted her presence when it became clear she would not leave.

_No, it’s just for a short time. You do not need to come._

_I’m only consulting right now, I can—_

_Consulting? Are you not still on active rotation?_

_Yes, but—I had a medical appointment the other day. It was their recommendation that I step down for the time being._

The tone of his voice alters almost imperceptibly, but she notices. _Elizabeth—_

She knows what he is thinking of. The nightmares when she was young. The rigorous conditioning appointments. The letter from the rehabilitation centre, delivering her fate.

_I’m fine. I’m handling it._

There is no such thing as an emotional bond between parent and child with the Psy.

And yet—

 _Be careful_ , her father tells her. _Keep me updated._

 _I will_ , she says, and lets the connection drop.

 

 

-

 

  

There are signs marking the boundary of the leopard pack’s territory, warnings meant to keep people away. She’s heard many rumours of how brutal changelings can be, how they are governed by their own set of laws, and how gruesome the consequences are for violating them. When she thinks of them, she thinks of Reddington. She has never doubted his lethality, but she knows, too, that he has never made her feel unsafe.

Her car rolls to a stop at the end of a dirt road. The sky is growing dark, thunder rumbling in the distance. She debates on bringing her umbrella before deciding to take it anyway. 

Elizabeth gets out and walks into the trees, leaves crackling loudly under her feet. As soon as she does, a leopard emerges from her right, and she becomes abruptly aware of another sitting in the trees. Her body tenses with the age-old instinct to fight or flee, but she remains where she is.

A woman steps forward, and behind her is a man she recognizes. Dembe catches her eye and nods in greeting.

“You must be Elizabeth Scott,” the woman says. Her mouth is a harsh line; her eyes size Elizabeth up. The leopard on the ground prowls around Samar, settling by her side. Her hand comes up to stroke through its fur. “I’m Samar Navabi.”

“Thank you for allowing me on your territory,” Elizabeth says politely. There is something about the alpha that reminds Elizabeth vaguely of Reddington—she has that same ability to command attention, that same feeling of power. Elizabeth wonders how he managed to get the DesertFire alpha, known for her animosity toward the Psy, to allow her here.

Samar inclines her head in acknowledgement. When she speaks, the words sound almost rehearsed. Elizabeth knows the alpha does not always negotiate this sort of thing in person, but she suspects that Psy visitors are rare, if not unheard of.

“There are strict conditions to your visit here. They are not up for debate.” For a moment, Elizabeth half-expects her to produce a contract for her to sign. “You are permitted a mile long radius around the house you’ll be meeting at, but nowhere else. You do not use your abilities on my people. You do not leak any information regarding my Pack or my land, psychically or otherwise—I know you’re connected to the PsyNet. If you violate any of these, you will no longer be under my protection.” Samar smiles, sharp and cold. “And I will not be responsible for what happens to you then.”

A shiver runs down Elizabeth’s spine, but she manages to hold Samar’s gaze long enough to voice her acknowledgement. “I understand.”

Samar studies her for another moment, eyes narrowed, before she steps back. “Good. Dembe will guide you there. I have other business to attend to.” Samar turns to leave, the leopard at her side trotting next to her.

Elizabeth notes that the one in the trees, however, remains.

“It’s this way,” Dembe says, and she follows him deeper into the forest.

 

 

-

 

 

When she sees the aerie, she stops, her breath catching. This type of architecture is unfamiliar to her; she is used to the modern, geometric style of the Psy, neat and orderly. In contrast, the house is built to blend in seamlessly with the tree, careful not to disturb the forest’s natural beauty. Changelings have always been the strongest advocate for the environment, and she sees it now. 

Reddington is standing on the bridge. His presence fills the open space around them; it pulls at her in ways she does not yet understand. No matter how much she looks around, her eyes are still drawn back to him.

Beside him is a woman Elizabeth does not recognize, and she catches a fragment of their conversation as they approach. Dembe slows his pace, though he does not make any move to lead her away to prevent her from overhearing. 

“…locate her, do not make contact.”

“Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“Who she speaks to, how she’s managed to stay in hiding for so long. Have Ezra watch her for a while.”

The woman glances at Elizabeth, and their voices suddenly fall to an undertone. He touches the woman’s face in a display of open affection; Elizabeth stares for a beat too long before looking away. There had been three bedrooms in that apartment, she recalls.

“Lizzie!” 

She lifts her head. Reddington has moved away from the bridge and to the top of the ladder, but instead of climbing down, he simply steps forward and lands with surprising lightness, barely making a noise on the forest floor. The woman does the same. Reddington thanks Dembe with a hug before turning to Elizabeth. 

“Lizzie, this is Luli, a close friend of mine.”

The woman named Luli gives her a polite smile. “Pleased to meet you,” she says.

“You as well,” Elizabeth responds.

Reddington is smiling at the both of them. “Unfortunately, Luli can’t stay—but next time, perhaps,” he says, and Luli nods before she leaves. 

He takes a step toward her, though he keeps a certain distance between them. His tendency to keep within close proximity of her had been mildly discomfiting at first, but she’d gotten used to it. Now, the space between them somehow bothers her more.

 “How was your meeting with Navabi?” he asks.

Elizabeth thinks of the look on the alpha’s face, the suspicion that bordered on hostile. The wary mistrust. It is not unfamiliar, or unexpected, yet it bothers her all the same. “I am alive,” is all Elizabeth manages to say.

Reddington laughs. “She wanted to blindfold you, at first. To prevent you from learning the land. It took some effort to convince her otherwise.” His smile becomes softer, his voice quieter. “Thank you for trusting me.”

She does not know how to respond to him at times like this, when he is so open and gentle and warm. She knows how to handle cold indifference or suspicious anger. But he is neither, and it confuses her.

A drop of water lands on her skin through the trees, and then another, distracting them both. Reddington squints up at the stormclouds. “We’d better get inside,” he says, then pauses at the ladder, suddenly looking apologetic. “The only way up is—”

“I’ll be fine,” she assures him. Elizabeth stands at the base, assessing its height. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Reddington move toward her, then halt. She hooks her umbrella on her purse and begins to climb.

 

 

-

 

  

By the time they settle inside, the rain has grown into a torrential downpour, thunder crackling in the distance. Reddington offers her a cup of hot chocolate; she declines.

“So,” Reddington says, settling opposite her with his mug, “have you discovered anything useful?”

“I did. I have the original case files, and I was able to interview Shahin Navabi’s alleged murderer in person.” She gives him a quick rundown of what she learned, including the interesting similarity the murderer had to William Newman, the prime suspect on the case that led her to this whole situation. The man she interviewed in the penitentiary had been disoriented as well, though not nearly as neurologically impaired as Newman had been. When she asked him about Shahin’s murder, he had seem confused and had given her conflicting details on the case. 

“Our assassin attempted to alter his memory,” Reddington says, and she nods.

“His confusion is likely due to the original memory attempting to resurface.”

“What kind of Psy would be able to do something like that?”

“Telepaths can make powerful psychic suggestions, which might be able to blur a recollection. But to _alter_ the memory itself—” she cuts off, eyes widening as the realization hits her, and she feels foolish for not having thought of it before. “As far as I know, only Js can do that—and very few can.” 

“That’s good—we’ve narrowed it down, at least.”

Her nerves thrum with anticipation, with excitement; they are getting somewhere. She redirects the energy to her shields, keeping her body still. “I won’t be doing any extractions for a while, so I have more time to focus on what we’re doing.”

At this, his eyes sharpen, a slight frown as he tilts his head to the side. “You’re off duty?”

“Just consulting, for now,” she clarifies. He is not Psy, much less a part of their system; he should not know what this implies. But then again, there are many things he should not know but does anyhow.

“I see,” he says, and thankfully, he does not press further on the matter. Then he asks, “Do you like what you do?” 

The question takes her by surprise. “I’m Psy,” she says evenly, after a long moment. “Whether or not I enjoy my work is inconsequential.”

“There was someone I knew when I was younger,” he says suddenly, setting down his mug, his thread of thought invisible to her. “He was my Pack’s historian, and he would tell me all these tales of what the world used to be. One of the stories he told me was of the J-Psy. Unique people, he called them, who could see your memories with a single glance, then show them to other people like a movie. Back then, though, Js were historians, therapists, teachers—many went into law or entered the system in some way, of course, but not all.” He softens his voice. “I can’t imagine that it’s easy, doing what you do. Walking through the minds of the worst of the worst.”

“It’s all I’ve known,” she says, painfully aware of how she sounds. She learned young that there would be no other option for her than this. “It isn’t easy,” she acknowledges, “to be a J.” One cannot walk in the darkness of others without staining some part of themself. “There isn’t anything else I can imagine myself doing, though.”

Reddington looks at her, curious. “No?”

“I have seen many terrible crimes,” she says slowly. “Memories are not always reliable, and the human mind is never objective. It is… intriguing, to see how people shape and view events that have happened.”

“I see,” he says, looking genuinely interested in what she is saying.

“What about you?” she asks, pushing the attention away from her. “What did you do, before—well—”

He smiles to let her know that he understands what she means. “Long, long ago, I was a senior soldier in my Pack, on track to become a lieutenant to my alpha,” he says. “Then things changed. And here I am.” His smile becomes slightly forced; his shrug too nonchalant. 

She hesitates, before asking, “What happened?” When he does not say anything, she rushes to take it back, to move on, but then he opens his mouth to speak.

“It’s a long story, but to make it short: my alpha had some sort of secret deal or arrangement with the Psy Council. He would have us investigate and do things for them, but we hadn’t realized it at the time. The Council used and manipulated us through him, and when we found out—our Pack just… fell apart. Some of us, the soldiers who were still loyal to the Pack, tried to undo what we’d done. There was something the Council wanted to find in particular, and we tried to get it before they did. But it was too late.”

Reddington looks out the window, into the storm-darkened forest. “The Council does not like loose ends,” he continues. “So they destroyed what remained of our Pack.”

She stares at him, unsure of what to say or to do. “I’m sorry,” she says, the words hollow, inadequate. 

“It happened a long time ago,” he says.

Their eyes meet, and a quiet understanding passes between them. His willingness to share his past with her, and the trust that comes with it—she does not take it for granted. Neither, she thinks, does he.

A loud, high-pitched noise abruptly pierces the silence, sounding in a certain pattern before starting up again. Elizabeth startles, looking around for the source. 

“It’s the Pack’s emergency code,” Reddington says, frowning, and moves swiftly to the comm panel by the door. Just as he switches the alarm off, Elizabeth sees Dembe running across the bridge, phone in hand.

Reddington lets him in. “What is it?”

“Missing cub,” Dembe says, his face tight. “Some of the juveniles were playing hide-and-seek earlier today. They’ve brought everyone inside because of the storm, but they’ve searched everywhere in the inner circle and haven’t found her. She’s been missing for a few hours now. They think she might’ve wandered off or gotten lost.”

They all turn to stare outside. 

“It’ll be impossible to track the cub in this weather,” Reddington says grimly. “You’ve already been cleared to help with the search?”

“Yes.”

Elizabeth stands and begins pulling on her jacket. “I’ll help, too.”

The two of them turn to her with mirroring expressions of disapproval. Dembe glances at Reddington before saying, “It’s not safe for you to be out there.”

Elizabeth looks at Reddington. “You said it yourself: you can’t track the child through the rain. But I can.”

“How?” Dembe asks.

“I can do a psychic sweep. It isn’t specific, so it’ll pick up any changeling minds in the area, but if we coordinate with the search team, we may be able to find her.”

Reddington sighs, a look of resignation on his face. “I don’t suppose there’s anything I can say to dissuade you?”

She shakes her head. 

“Go ahead,” he tells Dembe. “We’ll follow. I’ll try to get ahold of Navabi.”

Dembe leaves, jumping off the ledge. Elizabeth catches a glimpse of a flash of bright light, and then a leopard lands on the ground, streaking away. 

Reddington pulls one of his jackets out of the closet, holding it out to her. “Put this on.”

“Pardon?” 

“They have a missing cub. They won’t be thinking clearly. If they scent Psy, they won’t hesitate to attack you. This should be enough to at least confuse them for now.”

“Psy have a specific smell?” she says, pulling it on.

“Most do. It’s very distinctive—metallic and bitter.”

She resists the urge to sniff at her hair. 

The jacket is much too large and hangs loosely on her body, but she manages to roll up the sleeves at least. Reddington cannot quite stifle his amused smile when he looks at her, but he does not comment on her appearance.

“Let’s go,” she says, and grabs her umbrella.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The rain is relentless and shows no sign of letting up. The forest is sparse in this area and provides no respite; it is late fall, and the branches are nearly bare. The trees serve as a mild windbreaker, but Elizabeth’s umbrella is no match for the storm. She struggles valiantly with it for a few minutes before he steps toward her. Reddington wraps his hand near the handle, an inch from her fingers, and stabilizes it. She blinks at him, startling away for a moment before shifting back under the shelter of the umbrella.

“You were fighting a losing battle,” he says wryly.

“I was handling it,” she says, but she allows him to hold it for her.

They walk along the trail side by side. Her tension is a tangible thing, and he wonders if he made another mistake. Ever since she had flinched away from him, he has kept his distance. He has never wanted to cause her discomfort or fear, and the thought of it makes his stomach churn. He is debating whether or not to retract his decision when she speaks.

“Were you able to reach any of the team?” 

“I left a message with Samar’s mate. He’s attempting to contact the others now, but we’ll have to be careful.” 

She comes to a stop; he halts, too. “Let me try here,” she says, and her eyes unfocus as she scans the area. A strange, tingling sensation begins at the back of his neck, the way it always has when in the presence of some sort of psychic activity. “There are two—”

A particularly strong gust of wind suddenly knocks the umbrella to the side despite his firm hold, away from Elizabeth and toward him. She turns to him in surprise. His eyes widen and he blurts out a quick apology, righting it over them. 

“I think the wind is winning here,” she says, her tone neutral as always, but he swears he sees a flash of amusement in her eyes. Just like that, her shoulders ease, the tension slowly fading away.

He can’t help smiling in response, and his jaguar snaps to attention, curious and hopeful. “It’s not over yet,” he says, looking at the umbrella. “You can always wear my hat, if you want.”

“Thank you, but I’ll be okay.” Clearing her throat, she continues, “There are two changelings in the northwest. Half a mile, moving fast.”

“The cub won’t be one of them.”

“How do you know?”

“If you were a kid who got lost in the forest in the middle of a storm, what would you do?”

“Telepath someone for help,” she answers, then adds, “Find shelter, some place to hide, if I can’t find my way home. I see your point.”

“Try focusing on the east—nearer to the edge of their territory. They’ll have the inner boundaries covered. How far can you scan?”

“I’ve never tested it. A mile, at least. Maybe two.” She takes a deep breath and shuts her eyes this time. Her brow furrows slightly in concentration, her lips tightening almost imperceptibly. He finds himself smiling again in quiet admiration of her determination to trudge through rain and wind and dark forests to find the missing cub.

It’s so strange, looking at her now. So different from the girl he found all those years ago. There are things he knows about her, distant facts collected over the years: she has never married, she is a powerful telepath, she has the rare ability to project altered memories. When she manifested as a J, Sam had risked contacting him for the first time in years. _There’s nothing I can do,_ he had said. _I cannot protect her from this._

Reddington had stepped in, set a few bribes and threats in place, doing whatever he could to help her from afar. But now there is nothing else he can do, and they are running out of time. _She_ is running out of time.

Elizabeth opens her eyes and meets his. If she is startled to see his gaze on her, she does not show it. “One of the leopards is heading in our direction."

He immediately scans the area around them. “Then we need to move. _Now_.”

They set off in a brisk pace, her leading him in the general direction, and him guiding her through the trees. He does not scent anyone near, but his senses are dulled by the weather—the rainfall provides a constant buzz in his ear, and all he can smell is mud and wet bark. The umbrella rapidly becomes more of a hindrance than not, and they soon give up on it, too.

Elizabeth stumbles on a raised root, catches herself, then abruptly slips on a pile of wet leaves. Reddington grasps her by the arm, bracing her before she falls and takes both of them down. 

“Thank you,” she says, out of breath. She's shivering, he notes, and her hair is plastered to her skin. Her eyes fall to where his hand is wrapped near her elbow; he swiftly lets go and steps away.

“Are they still following us?”

“I think the rain has messed up our trail enough to confuse them. They’ve gone off in a different direction. But I may have found the girl, or at least a presence likely to be hers.”

“Are you able to tell if it’s a child or adult?”

She hesitates. “It’s just a guess, but… this one hasn’t moved for a while, and their mind does not seem as developed as the others.”

His eyes narrow, catching something unsaid. “There’s something else,” he says. “What is it?”

“The other changelings I see, they are bright and active and have a strong presence. This one… it’s at the edge of my scan, but it’s… it’s fading.”

He does not need to ask her what she means. "How far away is it?"

"Another half-mile, at least. I'm not even sure it's within their territory." Elizabeth glances back the direction they came, a look of vague unease on her face. Then she turns back to him, shifting seamlessly into that familiar mask. 

"I'll give them their location, then we can head back," he says, reaching into his pocket for his phone. 

"You want to go back?"

"You're freezing," he points out, "and if we go any further, you'll be violating one of—damn it."

"What is it?" 

His hands come out empty. "It must have fallen along the way. Do you have yours on you?"

"I think I left it in my bag, back at your place," she says, checking anyway, but finding nothing. 

They have a few options. One: they could head all the way back and contact someone that way. Two: they could find one of the other members of the search team and let them know, risking a fight. Three: they could go find her themselves. He can see the same options running through her head, and by the suddenly intent expression on her face, he knows which one she chose.

"None of the others are searching in her direction," she says, taking a step toward him. "We're the closest ones. I know the risk. I can handle the consequences." Maybe it is the rain or the cold or the fact that they've been walking for so long, but her concern is plain on her face, more open than she has ever let him see. Elizabeth is good at playing the perfect Psy, but not when it comes to things like this. It goes beyond morality, beyond conscience—she _cares_. "You don't have to come with me, but—"

He tries and fails to prevent the incredulous look he gives her. "Of course I'm coming. If you think I'd leave you here alone, Lizzie…" 

"Then thank you," she says, glancing at him, then shifting her gaze forward. "For staying."

His voice softens. "You're welcome."

"We should hurry," Elizabeth says, and leads the way.

 

 

-

 

  

After another thirty minutes of searching, they have both begun to slow down, tired and drenched and cold. He is not as averse to water as the leopards are, but even his jaguar has begun to sulk and long for the warmth of a fireplace—or a long, hot shower. Elizabeth has taken to wringing out her hair every now and then, and he hates that there isn't anything else he can do but watch her shiver. She's already wearing his coat, and even his hat has become too much of a lost cause to offer it to her. His jaguar paces and shifts helplessly against his skin, and he focuses instead on the forest around them, looking and listening.

She's searching too, her eyes periodically unfocusing as she scans. They should have brought a flashlight, Reddington thinks. He can see well enough in the dark, but he'd forgotten that her vision is not the same as his. "She's here," Elizabeth says abruptly, and he turns around to face her. "I can sense her nearby, can you—"

Her voice cuts off as she suddenly drops below his line of sight.

He lunges forward.

She's slipping rapidly down what his mind distantly registers is a landslide, and his only thought is to catch her somehow, and she's looking up at him and reaching out—

Reddington grabs hold of her wrist with one hand and digs his claws into the dirt with the other. He slows their descent, grunting as his hand scrapes through rocks and wood, until they finally come to a stop. 

She scrabbles to find purchase in the mud. The tension between their arms loosens as she manages to find a foothold, but he does not dare let go. His heart races violently in his chest, panic thrumming through his veins. "Elizabeth," he calls out, "are you okay?"

For a moment, she does not respond, and the fear nearly overcomes every thought in his mind. But then her fingers tighten around his wrist, and she looks up at him. "Yes," she says. 

He shuts his eyes and releases a long breath. Then he opens them and looks up from where they fell, twisting to glance around. The landslide isn't too steep; the problem is how slippery it is in the rain, the ground still shifting and sliding. He would be able to climb back up, but he isn't sure that she can, and he does not want to risk letting go of her while she is still below him. 

"Reddington. There's a ledge over to the right—do you see it?"

He does. It's a decent size, and it may be able to hold them. "Can you get to it?"

"I think so."

"I'll move, then you. Go slowly."

When they finally get to it, Elizabeth steps on it first. When the ledge holds her, Reddington slides down, careful to test his weight with one foot, then other. It remains strong, and he sits next to her, catching his breath. 

"I'm sorry," she says, voice shaking. "I didn't see the edge, I should have been more careful—"

It is his natural instinct to hold her, to touch her in some way to comfort her. Still, she is not changeling, and she has turned away from him before. But his jaguar is clawing at his skin, still wild with panic, so he moves his hand slowly where she can see it. She does not move away when his fingers touch her cheek, or when his thumb rubs away some of the dirt smudged against her skin. She lets out a shuddering breath and closes her eyes instead, leaning into his touch. His jaguar stills.

"It's not your fault," he says quietly. "I'm just glad I was able to get to you in time. Are you hurt?"

"Nothing beyond a few cuts and bruises. What about you?" She catches sight of his other hand and inhales sharply. It's the one he used to stop them from falling; it looks far worse than it feels, and he tells her so. 

"Changelings heal quickly," he says. "It'll be fine."

She moves as if to take his hand and examine it, but there is nothing they can do while they are stuck, so she remains where she is. "How are we going to get back up?" she asks, lifting her head.

"I can try carrying you on my back," he suggests. She looks at him doubtfully.

"It's still slippery," she points out. "You still have your scarf, right? Maybe we could use it to climb up. Or you could get up and pull me out using it."

"I don't think it'll reach that far. What if we use the branches to—" Reddington pauses, catching a new scent downwind. 

"What is it?"

He swings his head around, peering over the edge. "A cat," he says, and her eyes widen and follow his gaze. "There." 

On the branch of a tree sticking out is a small leopard cub, unconscious but still breathing. 

"She must have fallen like us. We need to get her out." She turns to him. "You should climb up and find help."

The thought of leaving her here, alone, on a ledge that could give at any moment… "Lizzie—"

"Give me your scarf. I can tie it to that branch," she points at one positioned about a foot away. "Just in case I fall. You can't climb and carry either of us at the same time."

Reddington looks at her for a long moment. She's right, of course. Getting help is the most logical option, but he doesn't have to like it.

Just as he goes to fix the scarf to the branch, a leopard appears at the top of the slope. It's dark out, but Reddington would know him anywhere. "Dembe," he says, his mouth splitting into a grin. Dembe paces near the top, skittering backward when he nearly slips. 

"Careful," he warns. "Can you get some rope? A harness, too, if you can find one? The cub's down here as well."

Dembe responds with a low growl before sprinting away.

 

 

-

 

 

"I'm sorry for how this has all turned out."

They started out sitting and talking in his living room, and somehow they have ended here, stranded and soaked and soiled with mud. He had somewhat of a plan on how to win her over and earn her trust, but being stranded here certainly was not part of it. The rain has let up, at least—a small gift. 

"I was the one who wanted to join the search. I should be apologising," Elizabeth says, pulling her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself. The position is rather unlike the Psy, her composed mask fractured under the pressure of self-preservation.

"Do you regret it?" 

"Going out in the middle of a storm and falling down a mudslide to find a missing child?" She turns not to him, but to the cub lying frighteningly still below them. Strangely, his neck begins to prickle again. "No," she says softly. "It was worth the risk."

Reddington turns to stare, too, at the child, watching carefully for the rise and fall of her chest. He should have known, he thinks, that she would not have been bothered by the circumstances they were in as long as the girl was found safe. The Justice designation may have been forced upon her, but she certainly lives up to it. All those years living under Silence, under the cold and harsh nature of the Psy, and she has somehow grown to be so strong-willed and so caring at the same time.

"You know," he says, "a survival technique to keep warm is to share—"

"I'll be fine, thanks," she cuts him off, and he smiles.

"I merely meant to suggest that we sit closer, Lizzie." After Dembe had left, she'd put some distance between them, or at least as much as she could without falling off. He is nearly certain that she considered that moment between them to be a mistake, a fault of her conditioning, and that protective barrier had come up again—cracked and splintered, but still there. Now, she eyes him with a calculating look, as if weighing the pros and cons in her head.

"I will not touch you again," he says quietly. 

She looks at him, something unreadable flickering in her face. Then—slowly, carefully—she shuffles closer to him, until their shoulders and knees are touching. He holds himself very still as she positions herself next to him, her chin dropping between her raised knees. 

When she speaks, her words are slow, as if struggling to come out. "I do not dislike it," she says, "when you touch me." She does not look at him. "That's the problem."

His breath catches, and his heart seems to stumble to a stop before setting off in a fast rhythm that has nothing to do with the panic from before. "Elizabeth—"

"Raymond!"

A rope drops down next to them, and the end of another one dangles beside it. Dembe has returned, now in human form, and he peers down at them from the edge. "I've anchored it to a tree," he shouts. "Will this be okay?"

"Yes. I'll let you know when to pull," Reddington responds, then turns to Elizabeth.

"The child first," she says instantly, and he does not waste time arguing with her.

Quickly creating a makeshift harness with one rope and fastening it to the one Dembe holds, he begins his descent down. He is seconds away from reaching the cub when he hears Elizabeth suddenly shout out, and he turns to see the branch holding the cub splinter, then break in half in a split second. Reddington immediately goes to dive for the child, but just as his feet lift from the slope, the cub moves _toward_ him, impossibly, into his arms.

The rope goes taut, and he grunts in pain as his shoulder slams into the dirt. The leopard cub, now awake, begins to mewl and cry in panic, but before he even gets a word out to soothe her, she goes quiet, her head angled toward something else. He is bemused but grateful nonetheless; he isn't sure he can survive another attempt.

"I'm here to get you out," he tells her. "And to do that, I need you to hold on tight, do you understand? Do not shift and do not move." His voice takes on the edge of a growl as he puts the weight of his dominance behind his words—not to intimidate, but to make her listen. The cub nods meekly and clings to him, and he shouts for Dembe to pull them up.

As he ascends with the child, he notices Elizabeth breathing hard, the exhaustion on her face even more pronounced than before. He calls out to ask if she's okay, and she merely nods at him before she is below his line of sight.

 

 

-

 

 

Elizabeth comes up with no problems, thankfully, although she is slightly unsteady on her feet. The cub, who had lingered near Dembe—more comfortable with her own kind, no doubt—limps over to Elizabeth, settling near her feet. Elizabeth stares at the cub uncertainly, and when she glances over to Reddington, he gives her an encouraging smile. She crouches down, and the cub scrambles up into her arms.

Interesting.

"Aram is waiting to take all of you to their healer," Dembe informs them, unfastening the rope tied around the trunk of a tree. "He's in a Jeep by the end of the path—the trees are too narrow here."

Reddington nods. "We'll meet you there." He turns to Elizabeth, who is now standing with the cub cradled in her arms, utterly transfixed. "Will you be alright with her?"

"Yes," she replies, and lifts her head only to navigate through the forest.

It is a short walk to where Aram is waiting. When they come into sight, he gets out of the vehicle, looking visibly relieved as he runs toward them. Beside him, Elizabeth tenses.

"I'm so glad you're all okay," he says, taking the cub into his arms and kissing her forehead. "Thank you so much for finding her." Aram addresses both Reddington and Elizabeth, who looks a little startled to be included.

"It's only because of Elizabeth that we were able to," Reddington says, knowing that she has violated at least one of Samar's conditions. He will not let her be punished for this.

Aram nods. "Of course. But let's discuss this at Ellie's after we get all of you checked out," he says. 

Reddington and Elizabeth settle into the backseat with the cub curled on her lap. Elizabeth stares out into the trees, the tension still apparent in the line of her mouth as she absently strokes through the cub's fur. He thinks of the radius Samar had set for her, and how Elizabeth had risked going further without a second thought as to her own safety. He thinks, too, of the other condition Samar set, and how the cub seemed to defy gravity when she fell. 

"Everything will be fine," he promises, brushing her hand with his. Not holding it, just resting it next to hers.

She inclines her head and turns away, but she does not move her hand for the rest of the ride.

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

When they arrive at the healer’s house, there is a man standing by the porch. He marches right at them the moment they get out of the vehicle, looking at Elizabeth as if she were a ticking bomb. “You brought the Psy _here_?” he snarls at Aram.

Reddington steps forward, angling his body in front of her. She suddenly recalls the moment she began sliding, falling, knowing she was going to die and waiting for something to impale her or hit her head or _something_ —then looking up and seeing him. Reaching out for her.

Her eyes fall to his left hand. _It looks worse than it is_ , he had said, but it is covered in mud and dried blood, and with the way one finger is bent a little oddly, she’s having trouble believing that. He’s holding his other arm to his chest, too—the one he used to hold onto her. Her shoulder is sore; she imagines that his must be, too.

Elizabeth tightens her hold to the child inside her borrowed jacket, where they had burrowed into during the ride. Her vision blurs, then refocuses, and she blinks rapidly. She is drained, both physically and psychically, but she musters the energy to speak, ignoring the sharp look Reddington gives her in warning. “I have no wish to harm anyone,” she says, and the man’s attention snaps to her.

“Levi, she was the one who found Beth,” Aram says, his voice placating but stern.

The child’s name is Beth. _Like me_ , she thinks hazily. Beth shivers violently against her, pressing close to her skin, but she has no warmth left to give.

“How do you know she isn’t messing with all your heads? Or that she wasn’t the one who took—”

She hears a low rumble, nearly a growl, and she realizes that it’s Reddington, his face colder and more intimidating than she’s ever seen it. But before he can say or do anything, a woman steps out from the house.

“That’s _enough_ ,” the woman says, glaring at the man called Levi. She turns to them. “Come inside, it’s too cold out for this.”

“Ellie—”

“Samar knows we’re here,” Aram says, and his voice shifts, a thread of steel weaving into his words. He holds Levi’s gaze, stepping forward. “We have both authorized their presence. Trust our judgment, Levi.”

It takes a few seconds, but Levi relaxes his stance and moves aside. Reddington walks next to her, placing himself as a buffer between her and the other man. His hand rests on her back until they enter the house.

As soon as they step inside, the warmth rushes over them, and Elizabeth closes her eyes and lets out a sigh. Her fingers, numb from the cold, slowly begin to thaw out.

“Shut the door, quick,” Ellie says, moving rapidly throughout the house. “Put Beth on the coffee table.”

The table in question is covered with a white sheet. Elizabeth unzips the jacket, gently prying the child’s paws from her sweater and placing her in the middle of the table.

Reddington hasn’t moved from her side. He moves closer to her now, and when she looks up, she sees Levi approaching—but with a blanket. He wraps it around Beth, then retreats to stand guard by the window, alternating between looking outside and keeping an eye on them here. Whatever anger he had a moment ago seems to have faded into wary distrust.

Ellie returns with a pile of towels and more folded blankets in her arms. Aram reaches her first, taking over the distribution. When Aram gets to Elizabeth, she steps forward but her body sways unsteadily, and she nearly drops the towel he gives her.

Reddington eyes her with concern and pulls up a chair. “Have a seat.”

She sits and twists her hair in the towel, squeezing. “Is she going to be okay?” she asks.

Ellie kneels by the table, opening up a first aid kit and setting up other supplies. “She looks like she might have a concussion. Definitely a few bruised ribs and a sprained ankle. But you’ll be fine,” she says to the cub gently as she examines her. “I have you.”

How changeling healers do their job is a mystery, as most of the changelings are to the Psy. Elizabeth has an idea of how their ability works—similar to the M-Psy, most with the ability to scan and diagnose, some with the ability to heal. Ellie is likely able to do both to some degree.

Aram brings over a couple mugs. “Hot chocolate,” he says. “Thought it would help warm you guys up faster.”

She’s still shivering, so she takes it. The first sip, warm and sweet and nothing like she’s ever tasted before, is almost enough to overwhelm her entirely. It is obvious, now, why her people do not permit anything other than the bland safety of their nutrition drinks and bars. Eating is a sensory experience unto itself. It is another transgression against Silence, but given everything that’s happened, she is able to rationalize it. There are worse rules to break.

 _I do not dislike it when you touch me_.

Her fingers press tight around the mug, nails white against the force of her embarrassment. She should not have said that. Drinking something sweet is forgivable. Admitting to this is—

The heat begins to burn; her hands loosen reflexively, and the mug slips. Reddington catches it before it even tips.

“Are you alright?” Reddington asks quietly, still leaning over her chair. He sets it on the side table.

“Yes,” she says, slightly startled at how quickly he reacted. “Thank you.”

He stares at her, his mouth curving down. “Ellie can look you over next.”

“Your wounds are worse off than mine. I’m fine.”

She’s a little tired and beat up but all things considering, she _is_ fine, and she will be as long as she conserves the little energy she has left. A psychic burnout would leave her utterly vulnerable on the Net, attracting unwanted attention. She has diverted the remainder of her energy into maintaining those shields. There is a backup plan should they fail, though it is not one she would like to rely on.

But with all the focus on her shields, she has little strength left for anything else. Her other defenses—the ones that help maintain her conditioning, the ones that keep her from hearing every unguarded mind within a five mile radius—are paper-thin. She is dangerously close to tipping over the edge, and somehow, Reddington can tell.

He says, “It’s not just that. You look like you’re going to faint any second.”

They are distracted by the sudden movement off to the side—a flash of light, and the small leopard cub on the table is suddenly a human girl, no older than six or seven. Elizabeth can’t help but stare, wide-eyed. It is one thing to know that she is changeling; it is another to witness the transformation firsthand.

She has never seen Reddington’s animal form, she realizes. She wonders what he would look like as a jaguar, if she would still recognize him. She wonders if he would shift if she asked.

Ellie wraps another blanket around Beth, then hands her a mug of hot chocolate. “This will help you get warm,” she says. “Does it still hurt when you breathe?”

Beth shakes her head. Ellie carefully lifts her and puts her on the sofa, where Aram goes to sit with her while Ellie goes to wash her hands.

“Which one of you is next?”

“Elizabeth is,” Reddington says immediately.

“He’s more injured than I am,” Elizabeth argues. She’s known for being persistent amongst her Psy coworkers; one of the human detectives she’s worked with once preferred the word _stubborn_.

Ellie looks between them, then goes to Elizabeth. “Sorry, hon. I don’t think he’d let me touch him without looking at you first.”

She looks over at Reddington, who shrugs and leans against the wall. "I appreciate your concern, sweetheart. But as I said, changelings heal faster." First it was _Lizzie_ , now it's _sweetheart_.

"He's right," Ellie says, pulling up another chair in front of her. "Psy tend to have a weaker build. Not an insult," she is quick to add, "just a fact of life."

"We live more cerebral lives,” Elizabeth says, and Ellie nods.

The way Ellie looks at her is unexpected. It's how kind her eyes are, if slightly guarded, and how unbothered she seems as the prospect of helping someone who is Psy. Aram had looked at her in a similar way, too. She had expected them to react more like Levi had.

“I’ll have to go manual for you,” Ellie says, rummaging through her kit. “My healing is restricted to changelings. But I do have a medical license, so you’re in luck.”

Elizabeth jerks away when Ellie reaches for her, more out of reflex than anything else. In her peripheral vision, Reddington straightens. Elizabeth clears her throat and forces herself to relax. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” Ellie waits for her to settle before proceeding.

The healer’s touch, when it comes, is detached and clinical—acceptable to Elizabeth’s shields, once she’s processed it. Ellie avoids touching her if she can, Elizabeth notes, focusing on instead on cleaning her wounds. It’s different than when Reddington touches her, or when she touches him. Her conditioning has categorized him as a threat, unlike Ellie, all on the basis of a fingertip to a temple.

But the physical contact itself is not the real problem—it’s how she reacted afterward, and how she continues to react to him. Her mind had latched onto that split second of contact, analyzing the interaction, learning how it felt to touch someone with purpose, with intent. The cautious, gentle weight of his hand. The echo of his fingers on her skin.

The real danger is the curiosity, the _wanting_ that she has tried so hard to bury.

Today, she gave into it. She let him touch her, earlier, on the ledge and in the car. She even held the child. It is wrong, she knows. Years of Silence have anchored that belief. There is a small part of her, though, that is tempted by the idea of letting go of it all. It’s the part that says, _You’re already acting against the Council_. _Why waste the little time you have left?_

She dismisses that thought before it even finishes. There is no way to do what she wants, to satisfy her curiosity, without abandoning Silence entirely—and that is not an option.

Ellie finishes her assessment after asking Elizabeth a few questions and taking her temperature. “I’m not well-versed in Psy physiology, but I've patched you up, and everything else looks fine. All I recommend is that you get some rest and something to eat. I have some leftover lasagna in the fridge, if you want.”

The hot chocolate is enough experimenting for the day, Elizabeth thinks, and declines Ellie’s offer.

She watches Ellie look over Reddington next. He says something to her that makes her smile, the conversation between them easy and light. She has only seen him interact with other people a handful of times. He’s good at talking to people, she notes. More than that, he’s charismatic—a quality that exists even among the Psy, though not many would acknowledge it.

A phone rings. Aram answers his phone, and after a moment, he walks over to Reddington and hands it to him. “It’s Samar.”

Reddington takes the phone with his uninjured hand. "Hello? …I did leave a message. No, I lost mine during the search." He stays on the line for another minute before hanging up. "She's on her way," Reddington tells them.

"Will you be staying to meet her here?" Ellie asks.

"No. We need to leave before they arrive. The father’s on his way, too,” is all he gives in explanation, looking at Elizabeth, but it is enough for all of them to understand. It doesn’t matter that she was the one who found Beth—only that she is Psy, and that she is dangerous, especially to a parent.

"Give me few seconds," Ellie says when Reddington pulls away, taking hold of his wrist. "One of your fingers is broken and it's healing out of alignment."

There’s a tiny _crack_ as Ellie realigns his finger. Reddington tenses, then relaxes, and it’s the only indication that he felt any pain at all.

Elizabeth stands, bracing herself against the momentary bout of vertigo. “Where are we going?”

“Back to my place. She’ll meet us there.” Reddington thanks Ellie and gathers their things, moving to stand by the door.

Elizabeth glances back at Beth. Beth is staring at her, and her tired face transforms into the brightest smile she has ever seen. A small hand peeks out of the mass of blankets surrounding her to wave goodbye. Elizabeth does not smile back, but she does wave. Her throat feels oddly tight when she leaves.

 

 

-

 

 

Reddington borrows one of their vehicles and drives them back. The sun has set, and even with the moonlight filtering through the trees, it’s too dark for her to see anything. It’s a marker of how opposite they are: her physical body is a limitation, where his provides an advantage.

They have not been alone since they were stuck on that ledge, since her confession. He had been about to say something before Dembe had arrived, and she waits for him to speak first.

She does not expect him to say, “I didn’t know you were a Tk.”

 _You don’t know much about me_ , she almost says, but then she thinks of all those times he’s seemed to know things about her that he shouldn’t. He has treated her familiarly from the beginning, and she has always been suspicious of his supposed reason for choosing her.

But it isn’t the time or place to probe about it, so she says, “I didn’t realize you noticed.”

He huffs out a dry laugh. “It was a little difficult _not_ to notice that the child was defying gravity, Lizzie.”

She concedes the point, but he isn’t entirely correct. “I’m not a Tk.”

He looks over at her, puzzled. His eyes have changed, as she thought they would. Jaguar eyes to see through the dark. Those same eyes had stared at her when they were on the ledge, wild with undisguised panic.

“My primary designation is telepathy,” she explains. “The telekinesis… I’m only 1.7 on the Gradient. It’s a minor specialty. I only really used it when I was a child. It takes too much energy, so I stopped.”

His shadowed profile changes, those bright eyes darkening. Something more somber and contemplative takes over, the air between them somehow heavier. “Did I say something wrong?”

“No. It’s nothing. Just… the things you realize in hindsight,” he says, and sounding subdued. Then he clears his throat. “Any more surprises up your sleeve?”

It’s an obvious attempt to redirect the conversation, but she goes along with it. “No. Just those two.”

“Is that why you look so exhausted? Because you spent too much energy?”

“Yes. Most of it is from the telekinesis. I tried to do too much with too little power.” She hesitates, then adds, “I also… spoke to her.”

It had started out as an attempt to see if there had been anything she could have done telepathically to wake Beth up. The mind is more malleable as a child, so she had attempted to send her a message. There had been no response. She hadn’t known it worked until she tried to calm Beth down after Reddington caught her, and Beth had looked up in her direction.

“That explains her reaction to you.” He rotates his shoulder, taking his bandaged hand off the wheel and flexing it.

“I’m sorry about your hand,” she says, thinking again of the fall.

“Don’t be. It isn’t your fault.”

He had said the same thing on the ledge, but she can’t help thinking that it is. She fell, so he jumped right down after her, and he was injured in the process.

“It’s not as if you fell on purpose,” Reddington says. “Besides, there can be more than one effect to a cause. While I certainly wouldn’t want to repeat the experience, we wouldn’t have found Beth otherwise. You saved her. You should be proud of that.”

Elizabeth thinks of the naked relief on Beth’s face when she realized she was being saved, and then of that smile she had given her as they left. “ _We_ saved her,” she corrects him.

Reddington looks over at her and smiles, too, as they pull up at the base of his cabin. They get out, and Reddington retrieves a remote hidden along the trunk of the tree. The ladder unfurls, and they both stare at it.

“I’m beginning to regret not taking Samar up on her offer to wait for the grounded house,” he says after a moment.

She decides to save him from apologising or offering some other ridiculous alternative—like carrying her on his back, which wouldn’t have worked earlier and likely wouldn’t now—and she begins to climb. It isn’t as difficult as she thought it would be, and her arms and legs remain steady until she gets to the top.

Reddington comes up soon after, unlocking the door with a passcode. “Which do you want first, food or a shower?”

She blinks, frozen in the middle of removing her—his—jacket. “Excuse me?”

“You haven’t eaten since you’ve gotten here—it’s a shame you didn’t take Ellie up on her offer, her lasagna is truly delicious—and your clothes are still wet.” He folds his muddied coat over a chair, holding out a hand for hers. “I can get you a change of clothes, but you’d feel more comfortable if you wash up.”

It’s true—her half-dry hair is matted with dirt, and her clothes are still soaked through. Her skin is cold and clammy after all the time they’ve spent in the rain, too. Still, there is something about taking a shower _here_ , at his place, that gives her pause.

Reading the hesitation on her face, Reddington backtracks. “You don’t have to, of course, I just thought it would—”

“No, I—a shower would be nice,” she says. “Thank you.”

He shows her where it is and tells her that he’ll return with a set of clothes.

In the bathroom, Elizabeth stares at herself in the mirror—and nearly recoils. She nearly doesn’t recognize herself. It isn’t just the sweat and grime and dirt, because when she washes it away, she still has that feeling that something is wrong. Her face is different, somehow. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks, and her mouth is more relaxed, and—

Panic seizes her chest. Her own horror reflects back at her in the mirror, and that is when she knows.

Despite her efforts, her physical mask is beyond fractured—it’s completely _shattered_. One look at her and any Psy can tell she’s completely breached Silence. It’s one thing to acknowledge her emotions in the privacy of her mind, but it’s another to have it broadcasted uncontrollably on her face.

Shaking, she strips off the rest of her clothes and steps into the shower, blindly fumbling for the handle. She runs through her meditation exercises and every calming technique she’s ever learned.

_Her Silence is flawed for her age group—_

_continues to have difficulty maintaining her conditioning_

_the nightmares indicate some form of trauma_

_may never be able to be Silent_

_—no other option for her than total rehabilitation. It has been decided._

She closes her eyes and runs her fingers up and down her scar. Her erratic breathing begins to even out.

The water runs hot, but her hands and feet remain numb and cold.

She stays in the shower for a long time.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **trigger warning** for a mention of **suicide**. it’s one line, happens near the end of the first section in italics.
> 
> thank you to everyone for their kind words and feedback! even if i haven't replied to your comment please know that i read and appreciate every single one and sometimes (quite literally) cry over them. you all are so great.
> 
> in all honesty, i wasn’t going to have this done this week. but after last night… well. i pretty much had my own mini-meltdown with the rest of the fandom on twitter & tumblr. so, fueled by sheer disbelief and fury, i powered through most of what i had planned for this chapter for you guys.
> 
> stay strong everyone ♥

 

 

-

 

 

When Reddington had left Elizabeth with Sam all those years ago, his only hope was that she would lead a long, fulfilling life. A happy life, or as close to it as she could get under the Psy. He had left Sam a number to contact him for emergencies, but that line had remained blissfully silent for a good few years.

Then the call came.

 _We were wrong,_ Sam had said. _I thought she might specialise into a combat telepath given what happened, but I never imagined—_

_What is it?_

_She’s a J, Red. I caught her accidentally looking into my memories this morning, and one of her teachers just contacted me about it._ _They already have her in the system and they’re taking her in the morning. There’s nothing I can do. I cannot protect her from this._

Reddington remembers vividly how Sam’s voice shook, the worry and anxiety breaking through the cracks of his Silent act.

_Tell me everything about the Justice Psy._

And Sam had, to the best of his ability. The boarding school for J children. The training and subsequent enlistment into the Justice Corps. The career they would work for the rest of their lives _._

Then Sam had said, his voice breaking entirely, _Red, the Js—they don't live longer than thirty, thirty-five at the most. All of them, they either kill themselves… or they're forcibly retired. Permanently._

Their conversation ended. Reddington had stood still, stared at the phone, the wall, the chips in the paint.

Then he began to work.

The second call would come only a few months later.

 

 

-

 

 

After Elizabeth goes into the bathroom to shower, Reddington suddenly realizes: she’s going to need something to wear.

He forgoes a coat and goes out to cross the small bridge to where Dembe and Luli are staying. Luli is the obvious choice, being closer to Elizabeth’s frame and a woman, but once he reaches her room, he remembers her leaving—and taking her suitcase with her. This is the first time they’ve settled down in one place for longer than a few days, and with what he’s sent her to do, he doubts that she’s left anything behind.

A quick look into the closet and the drawers proves his suspicions correct.

Dembe walks out from his room and into the hall. “Are you looking for something?”

“Just a change of clothes for Elizabeth.”

Dembe looks at him, and after a moment, he says, “I would offer mine, but…”

His usually inscrutable expression changes: his eyebrows raise, the corner of his mouth ticks up, his eyes take on a knowing gleam. Dembe, with his quiet, watchful demeanor, has always been perceptive.

Reddington does not answer. His first thought—one he had quickly smothered before it even fully formulated—had been, admittedly, to offer his own clothes. His jaguar had certainly approved of the idea. Even earlier, when she wore his coat with his scent masking her own, there had been a certain satisfaction to it, a misplaced possessiveness he did not want to acknowledge. Now, thinking about her wearing Dembe’s clothes—well. He smothers that thought, too.

His attention is abruptly drawn back across the bridge, to the other house, to Elizabeth. There is a sharp burst of anxiety in his chest; his jaguar paws at him, pushing an awareness to his skin, knowing something his human side cannot comprehend. “Thank you for the offer,” he says distantly, already moving toward the door.

Dembe drops the teasing look. “Is everything alright, Raymond?”

 _Something is off_ , he thinks, but he nods and says, “Yes. Get some rest. I’ll come by later.”

He crosses the bridge with swift steps. Once he’s back inside, he scans the room, ears pricked. The shower is running, and he can hear bottles moving around, bare feet shuffling in water. Still, he cannot dismiss the strange feeling in his chest, even though the urgency of it is gone.

Pushing it away for now, he goes to his room, searching through his clothes. Even if he were to change his mind and ask Dembe, neither of their clothing would fit. The closest he can get is a simple button-up and a pair of sweatpants—not the most fashionable of his wardrobe, perhaps, but more practical when it comes to shifting. He hopes the pants will fit at least, given the drawstrings.

Reddington knocks on the door to the bathroom. “Lizzie? I have a change of clothes for you. I’ll leave them by the door.”

The only sound is the running water. Then, “Thank you.”

There is an odd note to her voice, muffled by the door and the shower. He thinks back to when they were at the healer’s, the vaguely disoriented look on her face, how she kept dropping things and bracing herself against walls and furniture.

 _Your Psy could pass as human,_ Ellie had commented earlier, her voice pitched subvocal so only he could hear. _She doesn’t smell like one, but it isn’t just that._

He had noticed. It is a distinctive scent, metallic and bitter and cold. He had scented it on her those first few meetings, but it wasn’t until Ellie’s comment that he had realized: it would fade. At the beginning of their meetings, it would be clear and strong, but by the end, that characteristic bitterness would be barely noticeable. Back at the healer’s, there had been no trace of it. There’s a theory he’s working on, though it is still too early to test it.

The other part is her face. By human and changeling standards, she would appear reserved. But for someone who is Psy, she had been far too expressive. No Psy would have that look on her face when she held the cub, or exhibit that open wonder when she witnessed the transformation. That mask of hers, ever since the search and the fall, had been slowly fracturing.

It is further evidence that her conditioning isn’t set in stone. But if the trade-off is this, her exhaustion and injuries… There has to be another way for her to survive without it, to move past it, whole and healthy.

Reddington checks his watch. Samar will be arriving soon.

 

 

-

 

 

Elizabeth is still inside when he returns after washing up and changing. The clothes he had left are gone, though, and the shower is off.

Reddington raises his hand to knock, but the door suddenly swings open, and he freezes.

Elizabeth startles a step backward, one hand still clutching on the doorknob. Her wide eyes meet his, then skitter away, flickering from the wall to the floor. Her other hand twists into the fabric of her borrowed shirt, the sleeves folded and the ends tied into a knot at the front. Her composure is paper-thin, and then he scents it: fear, sharp and acrid.

She had looked tired earlier, but not _scared_ , and certainly not of him. He moves aside, careful not to crowd her, his jaguar pacing anxiously underneath his skin. “What’s wrong?”

He’s still learning, when it comes to her. The right things to say at the right time. When to reach for her, when to stay still. Now, his hands twitch at either side of his body, hesitant and unsure.

She opens her mouth to speak, and he can see the denial forming on her face. Then she changes course. “Could I get something to drink?”

He moves to the kitchen immediately, gesturing for her to have a seat by the fireplace. The box of Psy nutrient bars and powder is in the cupboard; he reaches for it instead. He tried it once, out of curiosity. It was not the most disgusting thing he’s eaten, but his appreciation for food had certainly been renewed.

She’s staring over at the box he left on the counter, an odd look on her face, when he goes to take a seat opposite her. He pauses when he sees where she’s chosen to sit—the furthest away from the fire as she can get.

“It isn’t real,” he says, setting the glass and a handful of the nutrient bars on the coffee table. “The fire, it’s holographic. Less chance of starting a forest fire this way.”

The generator, a clean-air device and energy source, came from Psy technology, but the holographic enhancements were a changeling modification. He keeps it running, but he flicks off the hologram.

“Thank you,” she says quietly, holding the glass with two hands. It begins to shake a little in her grip; she takes a quick sip and places it back down before tucking her hands underneath her legs.

He waits.

“You seem to know a lot about the Psy,” she says.

“I’ve done my research.”

She takes a breath and reaches for one of the nutrient bars. She picks at the wrapper, staring down at it. “I have two layers of shielding: a firewall against the Net, and another one that protects against external threats. After what happened today, it's taking all my energy just to keep them running. I should be able to maintain Silence even if my outer firewall goes down, but right now, for some reason, I can't. I just—I can't."

She looks up at him. "If you've done your research, then you should know what they do to people like me. To broken Psy.”

He understands it now, where the fear is coming from. Where it’s directed.

“Nothing about you is broken.”

Her face tightens. “Don’t lie. I thought I was managing it, but I didn’t realize… You had to have noticed.”

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Lizzie. You aren't broken. Silence… it’s not who you are.”

She shakes her head. Her fingers dig into her forearm, the nutrient bar abandoned on her lap. “All my life, it’s all I—”

“Whatever they told you, whatever they taught you—they were wrong." She flinches at his words, but he keeps going. "There's nothing wrong with you, Lizzie. Just because your conditioning has broken doesn’t mean that you have. It means that you’re finally starting to let yourself be who you really are.”

Elizabeth stares at him for a long moment as his words sink in. Then her face crumples, all the tension rushing out of her. Her body heaves with quiet, shuddering breaths, and he goes to sit next to her, all hesitation forgotten and left behind. Her anguish seems to echo in his chest, a tightness that flares and fades.

He loosens the grip her hand has on her arm, smoothing his fingers over the indents her nails made around her scar. Her eyes close when his thumb brushes away the tears on her cheek. Slowly, she moves to rest her head on his shoulder. The gesture humbles both man and jaguar, knowing what she is acknowledging with that simple action and what it has cost her.

He wraps an arm around her, stroking her back in gentle circles. Her scarred hand curls around his.

For the first time in many years, the restlessness in his body stills, and he is at peace.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been a while, and i know things have been a little slow, but thank you to everyone who's still reading! ♥

 

 

-

 

 

His words circle in her mind, over and over. _They were wrong. Nothing about you is broken. They were wrong._

Elizabeth had come apart, her fragile composure undone once more. She should not have reacted the way she did. She should have have dismissed what he said for its sheer irrationality. The Council may be flawed and corrupt; this she can accept, this she can understand. She can even accept the existence of Council-sanctified murderers. But is that not what Silence was meant to prevent in the first place? The history books spoke of dark times, pre-Protocol. Of violent, uncontrollable psychic manifestations that culminated in many deaths. Silence saved her people.

_They were wrong._

She does not know what triggered her reaction, but maybe part of it is that he had validated something she had known ever since she was a child, that the Silent act she performs is simply that—an act.

Silence had taken much longer to snake its roots into her; whatever happened in her childhood had ensured that. Because of this, she remembers, more vividly than most Psy, the cost her people paid: how it felt to smile, to cry, to laugh. How it felt to _feel_.

There is something else she knows deep down, too: Silence has never felt like salvation.

 

 

-

 

 

Soon, she becomes distinctly aware of every point of connection between them—her head in the curve of his neck, his arm wrapped around her, her hand in his. _Silence would say this is wrong, too_ , she thinks, and there is a part of her that still recoils from him, the same part of her that dredges up every memory of punishment for breaking her conditioning. But the impulse is less, now. Something has changed.

Reddington’s hand moves from her back to her hair, slightly damp from her shower, stroking his fingers slowly through the strands. The movement distracts her, leading her away from those thoughts. A thin layer of peace settles precariously over her frayed nerves. And she thinks: _nothing about this is wrong._

She doesn’t know how long they stay like that, with him quietly holding her, and her allowing to be held. It isn’t until Reddington suddenly goes still that she lifts her head and moves away, wincing at the ache in her neck. He pulls away, too, the sudden absence of all contact a muted shock to her system. Her body is still angled toward him, her hand resting in the space between them, fingers aligned in his direction.

“What is it?”

His head turns toward the door. A moment later, he relaxes and says, “They’re here.”

Elizabeth straightens immediately, wiping at her eyes and cheeks, attempting to make herself look remotely presentable. Reddington, on the other hand, looks completely at ease. “They?” she asks.

Then she hears it: a vehicle rolling to a stop outside.

“Navabi,” Reddington clarifies. “With her mate, it seems.”

Their first meeting rushes back to her: that cold smile, the unsubtle threat. A different anxiety takes over now, and she downs the rest of the nutrition drink he’d poured for her. It steadies her somewhat, and the dizziness from earlier is nearly gone.

“Don’t worry, Lizzie. I highly doubt she’ll be angry at either of us for what happened. All she wants is to know what happened, and you and I are the only ones who can tell her.”

“She hates me,” Elizabeth says flatly. “She made it clear that she would rescind safe passage if I were to violate any of her conditions.”

“She doesn’t hate _you_ , in particular. She doesn’t even know you. It’s just that you’re Psy, which—to her—makes you a threat. But you proved that you aren’t, and she knows that. Navabi would not have let her mate go alone to people she thought were dangerous.”

Elizabeth looks at him in surprise when she realizes who he’s talking about. “Aram?” 

Reddington smiles, finally standing up. “Yes. He can defend himself, of course. But he isn’t one to fight, and against you, me, and Dembe? It was a sign of trust. That, and how she allowed your presence at the healer’s. Besides,” he adds, moving toward the door, “you are under my protection, even if you aren’t under hers.”

And there it is again. He says these things, does things like hold her or jump down a steep landslide for her, and she hasn’t asked again since the first time, but she knows with near certainty now that this isn’t just business, not for him.

Maybe not even for her, after this.

She buries that thought.

The leopard alpha walks inside, followed by Aram. They keep their coats on. “We won’t be long,” she says.

Samar sits across from Elizabeth, legs crossed and hands folded in front of her. All the suspicion and veiled aggression from their first meeting seems to have disappeared, but Elizabeth keeps the memory sharp in her mind, not letting her guard down.

It is interesting, too, to see how Reddington and Samar interact. They are two people with powerful presences, somehow working together instead of clashing. Elizabeth has only a vague idea of how dominance and hierarchy comes into play with changelings, but it does not seem to be an issue now. Host and guest dynamics, perhaps, or the ties of an alliance.

Reddington takes a seat near her. “How is the girl?”

“She’s doing well. Her father is relieved,” Samar says. Her eyes settle on Elizabeth. Strangely, she looks almost concerned. Then Elizabeth remembers her reddened eyes and nose, and she tries to look as impassive and unflinching as possible.

“He was very grateful to you both, after he understood what had happened,” Aram adds.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Reddington says.

Samar is still looking intently at Elizabeth. “As I recall, I gave you three conditions,” Samar says. “You broke two of them.”

There is a beat of silence, the air going taut with tension. Elizabeth can feel Reddington shift beside her, about to interject on her behalf, but it is her turn to speak for herself.

“I did, and I apologise, but I did not intend any harm. There was a missing child in a bad storm. I wanted to help,” she says, meeting Samar’s unwavering gaze. Belatedly, she wonders if the impassivity is a mistake, if she should try to appear more human, more sympathetic.

“And you did,” Aram cuts in, his voice earnest and kind. “It would’ve taken us much longer to find Beth if you hadn’t decided to help.” When Samar turns to him, he merely raises his eyebrows at her. Something unspoken passes between them, and she gives him an exasperated look that contradicts the amused tug at the corner of her mouth. 

Just like that, the tension dissipates.

Samar is still wearing that half-smile when she looks back at Elizabeth. “We are thankful to you both,” she says. “I’m not happy that I wasn’t consulted first, but given the circumstances, I understand. As Aram explained it, you found Beth through—a psychic scan, is it?”

Elizabeth nods and walks her through what she did, how they found the child. They all listen, and Reddington occasionally comments to add on to her report. When she gets to the part where she and Reddington were stuck on that ledge, Samar says, “Beth mentioned that she heard you in her head.”

“Yes. She was unconscious. I was trying to see if I could wake her up.”

Samar’s eyes sharpens. “I thought the Psy couldn’t read our minds.”

“Not without tearing through your natural shields, no,” Elizabeth says, and quickly adds, “but given that Beth is a child with a developing mind, I thought I might still be able to reach her without doing so.”

Samar seems to accept the answer. Reddington takes over telling the rest of the story—Dembe finding them, how each one of them was brought up, meeting up with Aram, then being brought to the healer’s house. “And that’s all.”

Samar nods when he finishes, apparently satisfied. “Thank you. You saved one of our cubs, so obviously, I’m letting this slide. For now, though, the original conditions still stand. I don’t think my people are ready for a Psy to have full free passage, and I'm not comfortable with any more attempts at psychic communication.” She pauses, regarding Elizabeth appraisingly. “But I’m willing to be more flexible on the terms, given that I am informed first. In the future, we may revisit and renegotiate them.”

Samar’s words imply something long-term—or at least, longer than Elizabeth had expected, beyond a few visits. It takes her by surprise, but she manages to convey her appreciation nonetheless.

Working together with Reddington, a changeling, is something she would never have seen herself doing in the past—not out of prejudice, but at how uncommon it is for Psy and changelings to interact. That she has formed some sort of connection to a changeling pack through their _alpha_ is borderline unthinkable. Yet here they are, regarding each other in mutual gratitude.

As they rise to leave, Samar suddenly stops by the door. “I almost forgot—wasn’t I supposed to meet with you about something else earlier?”

The question is directed at Reddington, and he says, “It can wait.”

Then Elizabeth remembers: the case. Samar’s brother. The files she saw, the interview of the alleged murderer. Of course Reddington would want to involve her. Elizabeth had come to think of their meetings as something that was just between them, she realizes, even though she knows that this is not something that can be achieved by themselves.

Samar does not press the topic. “Tomorrow, then.”

Elizabeth watches as they head not down to their vehicle, but toward the bridge instead. To thank Dembe for his help as well, she assumes.

As they cross the bridge, she sees Aram take her hand. He says something to her and she laughs, the sound floating faintly but audibly through the window. Then he kisses Samar on the cheek, a quick peck, and Elizabeth turns away.

She remembers that look on Samar’s face earlier, how strange it had been to see the hard edges of her face go all soft, to see the fond half-smile that she had tried to suppress, but had remained visible in her eyes. They touch each other so easily, so familiarly, no hesitation at all. 

She turns back to Reddington and finds him watching her again. His face is unreadable. Whatever he saw, whatever impression he has, none of it is reflected back at her. Her first instinct is to look away, but she fights it, staring right back at him. She thinks of Samar and her mate, then she thinks of Reddington, and she wonders, and because wondering slips so close into _wanting_ again—

“Do you have a mate?”

It is not the question she should be asking. It’s too personal, too revealing, and he has always been able to see through her, to gather meaning in something she is only beginning to understand.

His answering silence is a leaden weight in her chest, filling her lungs. She says, unable to stop herself, “Your friend earlier, the one who left. Luli. Is she—”

“No.”

That single word is heavy with things unsaid, a complicated denial. She does not know which question he is answering.

Then he says, “No, I do not have a mate.”

“Oh.” She releases a slow breath, absurdly, irrationally relieved. Her own reaction unsettles her.

“And you?” he says, still in that low voice, shifting the focus away from himself. “You were good with the cub earlier. You never thought of marrying, or having children?”

She did, once. When she was younger and fresh out of training, when she did not yet know that her future was a single line that ended far sooner than others.

But she does not tell him this. Instead, she says, “It’s different for us. Psy do not marry. We form reproduction contracts.”

Reddington smiles at that. “Of course. But ‘reproduction contract’ sounds so _impersonal_ and businesslike. Everything from food to entertainment, art to relationships—the Psy have denounced all forms of pleasure, and I think it’s a shame, really. You don’t know what you’re missing.”

She swallows the reflexive instinct to defend her people, and she says, “I think I’m beginning to find out.”

He blinks, caught off-guard. His expression changes, and there is a flash of something undefinable, so quick that she may have imagined it. But it is gone, and that strangely intent look is back again.

“You should stay,” he says suddenly.

She stares. “What?”

“What time do you have to be back at Enforcement?”

“I don’t have any consultations until the day after tomorrow.”

He nods as if everything’s been settled. “It all works out, then.”

Then it clicks. “You want me to sleep over?”

“It’s already dark out, and the roads back to the city aren’t well-lit. It would give you some time to recover before you go back.” He pauses, then adds, “If you want to go, I won’t stop you. You don’t have to stay.”

She thinks about going back to her apartment the way she is now, in clothing that is not hers and conditioning that is clearly fractured. Her shields are steadier, and she is no longer worried about a psychic burnout, but her Silence is not the seamless mask it once was. Even now, she catches herself fidgeting.

“I’ll stay.”

It is for her own safety, she tells herself. But it is more than that—she _likes_ being here, in this house. It is the natural beauty of it all, the warm atmosphere. The latter, she knows, is because of him. She does not belong here, but he tries to make her feel welcome nonetheless.

Reddington smiles, pleased with her decision. It is a contagious thing, and she feels herself responding before she can stop it, the corners of her mouth turning up.

He freezes. Then his face transforms, lighting up into that same expression from earlier, and she knows what it is now: it is warmth and happiness and _hope_ , too bright to be contained.

“I’ll show you the guest room, then,” he says.

In the morning, her shields will be running at full capacity. Her energy reserves will be full. The cracks in her conditioning will have mended. There is a decision she will have to make soon.

But not until then. For now, she looks at him, and she lets herself smile back.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

_Do you remember your childhood?_

She dreams of a burning house, a blanket of smoke, a dark closet.

_There was a fire._

She remembers something shattering inside her head, the cacophony of a hundred voices tearing her apart—and then a sudden, blissful void.

_Do you remember what happened?_

The house that once seemed big is suddenly small, the hallway narrower and shorter. Or maybe it is not the house that grew small but it is her, taller and different, a new heaviness to her bones. The smoke burns with every breath, and she's moving faster now, something like fear and guilt lashing at her heels, moving through the house, toward a room, a child's room, her room.

_What are you scared of?_

She opens the door and walks into sea of burning trees. There is a man standing a few steps away from her, and his face is familiar. It is a man she knows but does not know at the same time.

_Where are we?_ she says to him.

_This is my home_.

She looks at the man, and when she looks back at the trees, they are no longer in flames. There are no leaves, no branches, and the forest floor is blanketed with ash. 

_This_ was _my home._

_What happened to it?_

_There was a fire._

_I can see that_ , she says, and there is a sense of knowing that slips away when she tries to grasp it. She reaches out to touch the trees, the flaking bark. _It must have been beautiful_.

_It was._ Then, suddenly, what was once dead is now alive, what was blackened is now all lush with green. The sound of birds chirping is vivid in her ear, the breeze warm against her skin, the scent of the forest all around her. She smiles, delighted, because she can, because a part of her still remembers. She blinks, and the landscape shifts until they are in a different forest now, but one that she knows.

The man turns to her. He's smiling, too, but there's a puzzled look on his face. His head tilts to the side. He looks at her as if he is just becoming aware of her presence, and she stares back at him, his features slowly sharpening into clarity.

Then his expression clears, something soft and warm and undefinable settling in its place. He touches her face, his knuckles gliding along her jaw.

_Oh_ , Reddington says, all quiet wonder. _It's you._

 

 

-

 

 

Elizabeth wakes up.

She lies still for a few minutes, staring up at the ceiling until her eyes begin to adjust to the dark. The dream is already slipping away into abstraction, and she is left with the imprints: ash on her tongue, the forest in her lungs, and a touch she has burned into her skin. Her mind pulls from memory a catalogued impression: she would know him by the tip of his finger. She would know him in her dreams. 

It’s still dark outside, not yet dawn. Too unsettled to fall back into sleep, she gets out of bed. The floor is cold against her bare feet. Gooseflesh rise up her legs, and she realizes, belatedly, that she’s only in his boxers and his shirt—she must have kicked off the pants in her sleep.

She moves quietly out into the kitchen, arms stretched out to navigate through the dark hallway. She decides against flicking the lights on; she does not want to wake him. It takes a few wrong cupboards for her to find the glasses, but she does find them eventually, and she pours herself some water. 

A movement in the corner of her eye catches her attention. It’s out the window, near the connecting bridge to where Dembe is staying. The moonlight is dimmed by the cloudy sky, so it takes her a moment to separate shapes from one another. When she does make out the outline of the moving figure, the glass in her hand slips dangerously. She catches it at the last second, and she does not move.

It’s a leopard, climbing up a tree to lounge on a low-lying branch. It’s still startling, for her, to see a changeling in animal form—and a predatory one at that. She can’t quite make out the details as dark as it is, but there’s something different about the way it looks, the shape of its body—

The answer comes to her, sudden but somehow certain:

_Are you a leopard?_

She sets the glass down on the counter. The sound it makes seems impossibly loud. 

_Jaguar_.

His head lifts and angles in her direction. She darts quickly out of sight, her fight-or-flight instinct overtaking any other plan of action. Some wildly irrational part of her says, _go outside_. 

But it’s the middle of the night, and she’s only in his boxers, and after that strange dream, she isn’t ready to face him. Not yet.

So she goes straight back to her room, slides under the covers, and tries to sleep.

 

 

-

 

 

The room is bright when Elizabeth wakes again, the morning sun filtering through the blinds. She remembers the pants this time, pulling the drawstrings tight and rolling it to fit. She’d borrowed his washing machine the night before, and her own clothes are still drying out.

Her shields are holding strong. She feels steadier than yesterday, almost recovered from the depletion of her energy. Her mind is clearer. Without the haze of the stress and exhaustion, she has come to a realization: she’s become too comfortable here. She’s become too comfortable with _him_.

Maybe the Council is wrong, the Protocol is wrong, everything she’s known is wrong. But she is still Psy, and he is still changeling. After this is over, she will return to a world where the Council is law, the Protocol is mandatory, and everything she’s been taught keeps her alive.

She knows what it is like to want something she can never have. This is one of them.

It is surprisingly easy to slip back under the guise of Silence. It is both a cage and armour, pressing against her skin. The methodical process is soothing, somewhat, after the chaos of the day before. She watches herself in the mirror, her posture straightening, tightening, closing inward. But it is her eyes that waver, that resist the change.

Elizabeth thinks of the conversation she had with him. She thinks of the loss of control over her conditioning, somehow both frightening and freeing. She thinks of his smile, and the way he says her name.

She steps away from the mirror.

The kitchen is filled with the noise of dishes sliding against each other, the faucet running, something sizzling on a pan. Reddington is standing at the stove. Her dream comes to mind, unbidden, an echo of his reverent voice in her ear.

“Good morning, Lizzie,” he says, turning to her with a smile.“Did you sleep well?”

For one panicked moment, she thinks: _he knows_. Then she catches the look on his face. His smile has faded, and he’s staring at her in all her manufactured Silence.

“I have my energy back,” she says, her voice coming out quieter than she intended.

“I can see that,” he says. He turns his attention back to the stove, but not before she sees the disappointment that flickers on his face.

She takes a seat at the table. He sets a plate in front of her, scrambled eggs and plain toast. "I thought those would be a safe choice for you," he says, but he places a few of the Psy-issue nutrition bars in front of her as well.

“Thank you.”

He looks at her for a long moment, studying her as she picks at the eggs. Eventually, he says, "Is everything all right?”

She fixes her gaze at her plate. “Yes. Everything's fine,” she says, inwardly wincing. She isn’t fooling anyone, least of all him.

His eyes narrow. "Lizzie.”

She exhales, dragging her eyes up to meet his. “My lapse in conditioning was only ever going to be temporary, just until I recovered. Now I have. I can’t let go of Silence. Not completely.”

There is a measured silence as Reddington considers his next words. Then he says, “I can’t imagine how… difficult it must be, for you, Lizzie. To have to wear that mask all the time. But I just want you to know that here,” Reddington gestures between them, “you don’t have to pretend.”

On some level, she knows that her attempts to forget everything that had happened the day before are futile. Some irrevocable change had taken place: he had seen her without her shields, and she learned how it felt to be seen.

There is something about him that elicits a persistent curiosity in her, too. It is the part of her mind that wonders, _what would it be like to let all your shields down, not because of a psychic burnout, but because you chose to? How would it feel to walk away from it all, if you could?_ She thinks it would feel weightless, like flying. _Or maybe,_ she thinks, _it would feel like falling_.

_I know this may be difficult for you to believe, but you can trust me._

Looking at him now, after everything that has happened, and even with all the secrets between them, she doesn’t find it difficult to trust him at all—and therein lies the problem.

Elizabeth says, her voice going soft, “I do know.”

She doesn’t notice how tense he is until something in him visibly unwinds at her words. Vulnerability, she realizes, can take different forms. For her, it was the uncontrollable collapse of her conditioning, it was a confession, it was trusting him to not let her fall. But for him, maybe it was an outstretched hand in the rain, a box of Psy nutrients in the cupboard, an invitation to stay.

“Why are you going to all this trouble for me? To make me feel…” She swallows hard, changes direction. “You wanted a J’s help to catch a murderer. All of this seems unnecessary.”

“Not just a J,” he corrects her quietly, voice low. “You.”

His eyes are intent on hers; her breath stutters, a warm flush blooming in her cheeks. “But why?” she finally asks. “Why did you choose me, then, if not for my abilities?”

Reddington goes silent, then, looking vaguely uncomfortable. "Perhaps we can discuss this after breakfast?"

Elizabeth opens her mouth to protest, but he merely raises his eyebrows at her in between forkfuls of egg. Reluctantly, she backs down. She reaches for the nutrition bars, then hesitates, her hand hovering uncertainly over the table. Before she can change her mind, she takes a bite of the eggs, a small concession.

"What do you think?" He tilts his head.

"It's… acceptable."

He makes an amused sound and goes to the kitchen. He comes back with one of her nutrition drinks in hand and sets it down beside her water. “You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want to, Lizzie."

”That's not what I—I do want to. It's just different. Not in a bad way," she says, and it isn't a lie.

He smiles. "Yeah?"

She nods, taking another bite to prove it. Pleased, he goes back to his own meal, occasionally interjecting with an anecdote about his breakfast experiences (either _wonderful_ or _abhorrent_ , apparently, with no in-between). It’s a thinly-veiled attempt to distract her from the previous subject, but now that it’s been said, she will not let it go.

The moment his plate is empty, she says, "You said that you knew me, when you first called."

He rises, gathering the dishes. A wry smile twitches at the corner of his mouth. She gets up, too, helping him gather the glasses.

“At first, I thought you had found me through the public records. But that isn’t it, is it?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

They stand on opposite sides of the counter. Finally, he says, “I knew your father.”

She blinks. “Samuel Scott?” she says, unable to keep the surprise from showing.

A beat of silence, and then, “Yes.”

“You knew—I don’t understand. How could you have possibly known him?”

“It’s a little complicated,” he says, and gestures for them to take a seat in the living room.

“Years ago, after my colleagues and I had uncovered the corruption in among our pack’s leadership, we decided to take action—to get to the source of the rot, so to speak. We found others like us. Not just changelings, but humans and Psy, an underground organization working against an incredibly powerful consortium whose roots run deep, even now. It was… an unprecedented coalition of individuals.”

“My father was part of this?”

“He was.”

“He’s never mentioned anything about it.” She tries and fails to reconcile the image of her father now with what he is telling her.

“I don’t imagine that he would have. This alone puts you in danger,” he says, looking troubled.

“I think it’s a little late to be worried about that,” she says lightly, but his frown only deepens.

She knows very little about Sam. He adopted and raised her as his own in a culture that prizes genetic inheritance, and for that, she will forever be grateful. But for him to be part of some secret anti-government group—she can’t imagine it. Then again, she would have never imagined herself to be where she is now.

"What happened to it—the organization? Does it still exist?”

His eyes darken. “No. As it turns out, there’d been a mole among us. With most of our identities revealed, it fell apart. The Council came after us. There are very few of us left today.”

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly.

His distant gaze shifts back to her. “Sam was one of the few who weren’t compromised. That you never had a clue about it means that he was able to keep you safe.”

“So all of this,” she says slowly, processing everything he’s said and cycling back, “is because… you were acquainted with my father?” The answer, now that she has it, is strangely disappointing.

“No,” he says at once. “Not all of it.”

He doesn’t offer any more information. His face is wary, as if bracing himself for what she will ask next.

She’s aware that the thread does not end at _I knew your father_ , that there is more than what he’s telling her, and his answer has only prompted a new round of questions in her head. She wants to telepath her father, too, and ask him about it—but explaining how she knows would be far too complicated.

“Will you ever tell me the rest?” she asks, not pushing, setting her questions aside.

“There are certain things that, if you were to become aware of them… it could place your life at greater risk than it is now. But in time, yes.”

She lets out a long breath. “All right,” she says quietly, letting it go for now. “Should we go over the case before Samar gets here?"

 

 

-

 

 

"You're saying that Haddock wasn't the one who killed my brother."

Samar stares at the case files they've laid out on the table. Elizabeth had pointed out the inconsistencies between the two: the first report had only named Haddock, another member of the radical anti-Psy group Shahin had belonged to, as a potential suspect in what was initially thought to be a suicide. Then the analysis of the blood splatter and gunshot residue had pointed to homicide instead. Other members had described the conflict between the two men as well, split in their goals for the group. As a human isolationist, Haddock had also become the prime suspect. But the security footage showed Haddock's arrival at Shahin's apartment an hour after the estimated time of death. Furthermore, witnesses had placed Haddock somewhere else during that time, providing him with an alibi.

The second file, the one Elizabeth had been able to access herself, contradicted the first. There was no record of any security footage, but one of Shahin’s neighbours had placed Haddock at the scene of the crime during the time of death. The alibi was gone, too, as the witnesses had recanted their statements. New evidence was also found: fingerprints on the gun, traces of blood on the soles of Haddock's shoes. But most damning of it all was Haddock's confession.

"I don't understand. Even if the files were doctored, he confessed," Samar says, her voice shaking.

"I went to go see him at the penitentiary. There were signs that his mind had been tampered with, but I was able to view the original memory." The neurological symptoms were far more subtle than Newman’s had been—they only became apparent when she started probing about the case. "Everything in the first report lines up. When Haddock arrived, your brother had already passed away."

Samar stares at Shahin's picture, fury and renewed grief in her eyes. "It was the Psy, then."

Elizabeth hesitates, her eyes flickering over to Reddington. "Yes. We believe that whoever killed your brother is linked to other recent homicides."

"But you don't know who it is."

“We know that a J is involved. Male, tall, dark hair, fair skin."

“Shouldn’t that be enough?” Samar looks at Elizabeth, jaw clenched. “You’re a J. Doesn’t the Justice Corps keep a database of some kind?”

Elizabeth had already mentioned to Reddington earlier that it was unlikely they kept her particular subdesignation on record anywhere, public or private. She has no way of knowing which one of her colleagues has the same ability she does.

“It’s still a large pool of suspects,” she hedges, trying not to reveal one of her people’s most closely guarded secrets to a woman she does not yet trust.

"It's likely that he wasn't working alone, either," Reddington says, sliding over a printed news article. "Not after the bombing. Someone from the Council has to be pulling the strings."

Samar's face tightens. "His involvement in it wasn't confirmed."

"Perhaps not," Reddington acknowledges, "but to the public, to the Psy Council, all that matters is that two high-ranking Council members died, and five more were injured. The extremist group your brother was part of? Nobody knows the names of the other members. Nobody _cares_. But the brother of the most influential changeling alpha—"

Samar cuts him off with a growl. "You know that we don't condone what they did. Shahin… we cut ties with him years ago. But he was still Pack. He deserved a fair trial. Not _this_." She shuts her eyes, her knuckles going white. Finally, she says, "What can we do to help?"

Reddington slides over a list of names. "We're going to need someone to look into these people. E-mails, bank accounts, things like that. Anything to link them to one or more of the Councillors. Elizabeth will be looking into the Psy side of things." He takes out a pen and underlines one of them. "Richard Allen is our closest link at the moment."

"Don't you have someone who can do this sort of thing already?"

"I did," he says, his voice clipped. "She was killed. But I know that you have someone who helped develop her company's flagship program."

Samar lifts her eyebrows. "Stephanie worked for you?"

Elizabeth's head snaps toward him as well. "Stephanie _Moore_ of Aegis Technologies? The case I was just on?"

"I thought I mentioned it to you," Reddington says to Elizabeth.

"No, you didn't," she says, and considers the implications of having the CEO of a cybersecurity company extracting personal information for him.

Samar presses her lips together, considering this, too. "I'll talk to Aram," she says.

Reddington smiles. "Perfect."

Samar tears off the bottom of the list and writes down a phone number. "Here," she says, handing it to Elizabeth. "In case you need to contact me directly. Are you heading back?"

Elizabeth folds the piece of paper, tucking it in her pocket. "Soon," she says, and does not look at Reddington.

"If you need someone to take you back to your car, you can just use the comm panel to contact whoever's on patrol."

"I can take her," Reddington says.

Samar gathers her things, taking a copy of her brother's case files with her. At the door, she lingers, looking back at them. "I know that you probably have some ulterior motive for all of this. But whatever your personal aim… I appreciate that you're involving us in this," she says.

Reddington nods. "We'll keep you updated."

 

 

-

 

 

It’s harder than it should be, to walk away.

She’s dressed in the clothes she came in, washed and dried, if a little wrinkled. Her legs feel leaden, reluctant to move forward. The moment she leaves the tree line of the forest and crosses the invisible boundary marking DesertFire’s territory, she finds herself looking back.

Reddington says, “You’re always welcome here.”

“Are you even allowed to say that?”

He laughs. “Well, as long as you tell Samar first. She won’t turn you away. But if you ever want to drop by for whatever reason, my door is open.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

She stands by the door of her car, her hand resting on the handle. They both look at each other for a long moment, and she thinks of her dream, of him standing in front of her, less than an arm’s length away. But this isn’t a dream, so he steps back, hands in his pockets, not touching her.

“Goodbye, Lizzie.”

Elizabeth gets in the car. She looks back only once as she’s driving away, and Reddington is still standing there, watching her leave. It is only when she cannot see him anymore that she wraps herself in Silence again. It is easier now, without him nearby. Her walls are stronger, and they do not falter.

By the time she arrives at her apartment, she is the perfect Psy.


End file.
